










S A ' "• A "• - A V— , 

<* ^ 4 $ 

\ o ÿ 

; 


*z> $ 


J ^ X . . . , 

'Y.-zt£ b * 

2 : 
o 


'\c? .. 

ovV s s r A, ^ Jl OV t s 

' -'“' ". % <& S 

- V s* 

? Z \. .O 1 


r * y ^ * 

s % rp çî> 'Vy , , « w 

> \'V> O ' ^ ■ 

V ° > 




«3 


O 


92» 


V ^ JF s'** r 



aV ArV O % 
# A 

VO. * 


y O , X * A %> 

A AA °o 



<y\, ** / c s pvj 

^ * iX ^ \VJ 

^ , S 


* ^ *0* c 

'* % / - 
1 V «V 5 




' 9> 


4P 

° z -*b 4 : 

° >°A : . 



r 

aT "0>. o 
r 6 ^ ^ -4 ^ct* ° 

y »^-*.A %*p 

* - A A‘A °o 

X ^ -NX «HT /In. - ^ 



P -O 

- s .cv> 


V^**''>° ,.. r A # 

'- ' ■& ■' - *<■ *. A P 

* ^ «# * 
%>• c> ° 


V V 


<r ^ ^ ^ 

y o « K "* A "?£> 

, A\ P 'pA 

P P.^JP % 

•*> 


'’'o f 


: ^ ^ „* 
Aa %^ 5 Bf * ** A : 

1 A *•< ..»AcP vp, 

> Av""' 


a ^A#VA v ^ - 

y ° ’ x ^ a A %. y 0 * X * A ^ 



^ ' -o A 


-v -,W * '* «IP » 

^ i. */ w T'' rp ^'«T®*:-.' c? 

^ J * * s A> s * * > <> ' * * s *£> 

-Ç)V . s < 

^ r,*mp. % ,# . 

r v-* CA C5 




/'V ° 


<n> r ~ ^ & « - 

v\ <v 



y 0 ^ A / 

O-. AV 




- ^ \w/ # 

"?'A> Apr “'A 


$>p 



^ <A 







/ 


CORINNE; 

OR, 


ITALY. 


“Udrallo il bel paese, 

Ch’ ADennii parte, e ’1 mar circonda e l’Alpe.” 

Pjctra*ob. 


» ù 


BY 

MADAME DE STAËL. 

14 


TRANSLATED BY ISABEL HILL; 


WITH 

METRICAL VERSIONS OF THE ODES BY L. E. LANÇON 



Nifo-f ork : 

W. I. POOLEY & CO., 331 PEARL STREET, 
(harpers’ building.) 















V. 




y 



























'h 






' C C « 

t » * 


V 


< ‘ 
* * 
i t 
l ( 


* 

c « 

« c 

«■ C < 

« <. 


C 

* 


< «. 

r. 

< * 
< ( 
< ( 


«Ce 


< «• t 

«» « C 

C < K 


< 1 


a 

( 

c 

( 

< < c 


<. r. c 

i ( 

< 

c c c 


f. r 

t i 
i c <■» 
* c 

i r 


€ C C 
C 

« 

C 

9 


f C < 


C ( < 


r ‘ c 


* c f 


C 

< 


< c < c c c 

« t 

ce * c 

c c * 1 

c C <<< 


t C 


c 

c 


t < ( 


. /: 

* £ 


C ( 1 


c‘ < 


c 

c 

C 


C 

c 


t 

c 


<C ‘ 


c c c 
c 

c c 
< 
c 


«% 


r 

c 

< 









































CmnsUtnr's 


Whatever defects may exist in my attempt at ren- 
dering “ Corinne” into English, be it remembered, that 
we have many words for one meaning — in French there 
are several significations for the same word. Repetition, 
an elegance in French, is a barbarism in English. Thus 
I had to contend with a tautology almost unmanage- 
able, and even a reiteration of the same sentiments. 
Sentences, harmonious in French, lost all agreeable 
cadence, until entirely reconstructed. Madame de StaèTs 
diffuse manner obliged me also to transpose pretty 
freely. I found, in so doing, many self-contradictions, 
some of which I could not efface. Her boldness of 
condensation, too, and love of vague, mysterious sub- 
limity, often left me in doubt as to what might be 
hidden beneath the dazzling veil of her eloquence. It 
may appear profanation to have altered a syllable ; but, 
having been accustomed to consult the taste of my own 
country, I could not outrage it by being more literal. 
I . have taken the liberty of making British peasants 
and children speak their native idiom, and have added 

(hi) 


tv translator's preface. 

a few explanatory notes ; occasionally availing myself 
of quotations from more recent authorities than that of 
the Baroness. Lest I should unconsciously have com- 
mitted any great mistake, be it known that the printers 
of her “ eighth corrected and revised edition” gave Co- 
rinne a military instead of a literary career, and made 
the Roman mob throw handfuls of bon mots into the 
carriages during the carnival. 

Miss Landon had kindly undertaken to render the 
lyric portions of the work ; but we feared for awhile, 
that our own Improvisatrice would be prevented by 
circumstances from gracing the volume by her name. 
I, therefore, translated Corinne’s compositions into 
rhyme. Only one of my essays, however, “ The Frag- 
ment of Corinne’s Thoughts,” was required. I am 
conscious of its imperfect regularity ; but, having no 
poetical reputation at stake, I throw myself on the 
mercy of my judges. 

ISABEL HILL. 


6, Cecil Street, Strand. 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


Madame de Staël — Her Infancy and Education — Her Marriage — Her Per 
sonal Appearance — The Revolution — Her First Meeting and Conversation 
with Bonaparte — Interview with Josephine — Her Portrait and Character 
—Her Repartees— Exile — Delphine— Auguste de Staël and Napoleon — 
Private Theatricals — Corinne — Police Interference — Travels in Foreign 
Countries — Her Illness and Death — Effect of Napoleon’s Persecution 
upon the Literary Position of Madame de Staël. 

Jacques Hecker, the father of Madame de Staël, a Gene- 
vese and a Protestant, was at the birth of his daughter 
Annie-Louise-Germaine Hecker, in 1766, a clerk in a 
banking-house at Paris. He had married M’lle Curchod, 
a Swiss like himself, and who had, some years before, 
been the object of the first and last love of Gibbon the 
historian. Madame Necker undertook the education of 
Louise, plied her with books and tasks, and introduced 
her, even in infancy, to her own circle of brilliant and 
accomplished men. “At the age of eleven,” writes a 
lady who was at the time her companion, “ she spoke 
with a warmth and facility which were already eloquent. 
In society she talked but little, but so animated was her 
face that she appeared to converse with all. Every guest 
at her mother’s house addressed her with some compli- 
ment or polite speech ; she replied with ease and grace.” 
She was encouraged to write, and her youthful produc- 
tions were read in public, and some of them were even 

printed. This process of education, while it rendered the 

? 


vi 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


subject of it rather brilliant than profound, and encour- 
aged vanity and a love of display, broke down her health, 
and the physicians ordered her to retire to the country, 
and to renounce all mental application. Her mother, 
disappointed and discouraged, ceased to take the same 
interest in her talents and progress ; this indifference led 
Louise to attach herself more closely to her father, and 
developed in her what became through life her ruling 
passion — filial affection. 

In 1776, Hecker, who had in the meantime become the 
partner of his late employer, and had attracted attention 
by an essay on the corn laws, was considered by the 
masses as the only person capable of saving the country 
from bankruptcy. He was, therefore, appointed to con- 
trol the finances, being the first Protestant who had held 
office since the revocation of the Edict of Hantes. One 
of his acts, five years afterward, having excited clamor 
among the royalists, an anonymous pamphlet appeared, 
in which his defence was warmly espoused and the pro- 
priety of his conduct successfully asserted. Hecker 
detected his daughter’s style in this production, and she 
acknowledged its authorship, being then fifteen years 
old. Hecker resigned office, and retreated with his 
family to Coppet, on the borders of the Lake of Geneva. 

Madame de Genlis saw M’lle Hecker for the first time, 
when the latter was sixteen. She thus speaks of her in 
her memoirs : “ This young lady was not pretty ; her man- 
ner was very animated, and she talked a great deal, too 
much indeed, though always with wfit and discernment. 
I remember that I read one of my juvenile plays to Mad- 
ame Hecker, her daughter being present. I cannot 
describe the enthusiasm and the demonstrations of M’lla 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


VU 


Louise, while I was reading. She wept, she uttered 
exclamations at every page, and constantly kissed>my 
hands. Her mother had done wrong in allowing her to 
pass three-quarters of her time with the throng of wits 
who continually surrounded her, and who held disserta- 
tions with her upon love and the passions. 5 ’ * 

At the age of twenty, Louise married Baron de Staël- 
Holstein, the Swedish ambassador at the court of 
France. She sought neither a lover nor a friend in her 
husband ; she treated marriage as a convenience, and 
became a wife in order to obtain that liberty and inde- 
pendence which were denied her as a young lady. She 
required that her husband should be noble and a Protes- 
tant, and as in addition to these essentials Baron de Staël 
was an agreeable and an honorable man, and engaged 
never to compel her to follow him to Sweden, she con- 
sented to marry him. In the same year, 1786, a failure 
of the crops, and the consequent distress of the poorer 
classes, compelled the king to recall Hecker to the 
administration of the finances. 

Madame de Staël is thus described, at the age of 
twenty-five, by a writer who, to justify the peculiar and 
oriental extravagance of his style, assumed the character 
of a Greek poet : “ Zulrne advances ; her large dark eyes 
sparkle with genius ; her hair, black as ebony, falls on 
her shoulders in wavy ringlets ; her features are more 
striking than delicate, and express superiority to her sex. 
4 There she is, 5 all exclaim when she appears, and at 
once become breathless. When she sings, she extempor- 
izes the words of her song, the ecstasy of improvisation 


* Mem. de Madame de Genlis, 92. 


viii 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


animates lier face, and holds the audience in rapt atten- 
tion. When the song ceases, she talks of the great truths 
of nature, the immortality of the soul, the love of liberty, 
of the fascination and danger of the passions. Her fea- 
tures meanwhile wear an expression superior to beauty ; 
her physiognomy is full of play and variety. When she 
ceases, a murmur of approbation thrills through the 
room ; she looks down modestly ; her long lashes sink 
over her flashing eyes, and the sun is clouded over.” 

The Revolution now advanced with rapid steps. 
Hecker, whose capabilities as a financier have been 
generally acknowledged, was totally deficient in the 
higher qualities of the statesman. He sought to assume 
a middle'" position between the court and the people, 
but failing of success, was in consequence dismissed on 
the 11th of July, 1789. Paris rose in insurrection when 
this event became known, and on the 14th, the Bastille 
was in the hands of the people. The king was forced to 
send an order to recall Hecker, who had left the country; 
this overtook him at Frankfort. “ What a period of happi- 
ness,” writes Madame de Staël, “was our journey back 
to Paris ! I do not believe that a similar ovation was 
ever extended to a man not the sovereign of the country. 
Women, afar off in the fields, threw themselves on their 
knees, as the carriage passed : the most prominent citizens 
acted as postillions, and in many towns people detached 
the horses and dragged the carriage themselves. Oh, 
nothing can -equal the emotions of a woman who hears 
the name of a beloved parent repeated with eulogy by a 
whole people!” This triumph was of short duration. 
In a little more than a year, Hecker, who had opposed 
some of the more radical measures of reform in the 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


ix 


National Assembly, lost the confidence of the people, 
resigned, and again withdrew to Switzerland. He was 
now accompanied by the revilin-gs and maledictions of the 
populace, and even narrowly escaped with his life. 

Madame de Staël remained at Paris, and speedily 
became involved in the intrigues of the day. Her salon 
was the rendezvous of the royalists and Girondins, and 
the scene of ardent political discussions. In the midst 
of the sanguinary excesses of ’92, she fearlessly used her 
influence to shelter and save her friends. She took them 
to her own house, which, being the residence of an 
ambassador, she presumed would be inviolable. But 
one night the police appeared at the gate, and required 
that the doors be opened for a rigid search. Madame de 
Staël met them at the threshold, spoke to them of the 
rights of ambassadors and of the vengeance of Sweden, 
and by dint of wit, argument and intrepidity, persuaded 
them to abandon their designs. She was soon compelled 
to flee, however, and take refuge with her father at 
Coppet. Here she wrote and published an appeal in 
behalf of Marie Antoinette, and “Reflections on the 
Peace of 1783.” The fall of Robespierre, in July, 1794, 
enabled her to return to Paris, whither she hastened, 
upon the news of his execution. 

Her residence in the capital formed an event in the 
annals of society at that period. The most distinguished 
foreigners and the best men in Prance flocked around 
her. She gave her influence to the government of the 
Directory, being desirous of the establishment of some 
guaranty for the preservation of order and of individual 
security. 

“ Madame de Staël,” says de Goncourt, “ was a man of 


X 


MADAME DE STAËL* 


genius as early as the year 1795. It was by her hand, 
that France signed a treaty of alliance with existing 
institutions, and for a period accepted the Directory. 
Who obtained her the victory ? Herself, with the aid of 
a friend who was the scribe of her dictation, the aid-de- 
camp and the notary-public of her thought, Benjamin 
Constant. The daughter of Necker forbade France to 
recall its line of kings : she retained the republic : she 
condemned the throne. She agitated victoriously in 
behalf of the maintenance of the representative system. 
The human right of victory was equivalent, with her, to 
the divine right of birth.” * 

The appearance of Bonaparte upon the stage of action 
produced a violent change in her life, pursuits and plea- 
sures. She disliked and distrusted him from the first, 
and her drawing-room became an opposition club, or, as 
Hapoleon himself described it, an arsenal of hostility. 
He, in turn, was vexed at her intellectual supremacy, 
and dreaded her influence. They first met at a ball 
given to Josephine, toward the close of the year 1797. 
She had long hunted him from place to place, for she 
was desirous of subjecting him, if possible, to the fasci- 
nations of her conversation, and he, avoiding the inter- 
view with consummate address, had always escaped her 
importunities. At the ball in question, he saw retreat to 
be impossible, and boldly seated himself in a vacant 
chair by her side. The following conversation, attributed 
to them, contains, in a concise form, the best of the 
authenticated sallies and repartees perpetrated by the 
illustrious interlocutors. After the usual preliminaries, 
the dialogue proceeded thus : 

* Soc. Franç. sous le Directoire, 298. 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


XI 


Madame de Staël. Madame Bonaparte is a charming 
lady. 

Bonaparte. Any compliment passing through your 
lips, madame, acquires additional value. 

St. Ah! then you appreciate my opinion and my 
approbation?. But you have doubted my capacity, you 
have thought me frivolous ; nevertheless, my studies in 
diplomacy, in the history of courts 

Bon. I implore Madame de Staël not to drag the 
Graces to the pillory of politics. 

St. I assure you, General, that your mythological 
compliment is totally lost upon me : I should prefer that 
you judge me worthy to talk reason with you. 

Bon. The right of your sex is to make us lose our 
reason : do not despise so excellent a privilege. 

St. Genera], I beg of you not to play with me as with 
a doll : I desire to be treated as a man. 

Bon. Then you would like to have me put on petti- 
coats. 

St. — to a gentleman interrupting her. — Sir, be good 
enough to understand that I desire no assistance, though 
certainly my adversary is sufficiently powerful to render 
assistance necessary. 

Bon. Madame, it was to my aid that he was coming ; 
my danger appalls him, and he was seeking to relieve 
me. 

St. In any case, I owe him small thanks for his tardy 
aid, since you confess that my victory seemed certain. 
He is a true friend, however; he stands by those he 
likes, even in their absence, when, usually, friendship 
slumbers. 

Bon. In that, friendship imitates its cousin — Jove. 


xii 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


St. — nerving herself for an effort. — By wliat means. 
General, can an ordinary woman, without literary repu- 
tation, without superior genius, be sustained in the affec- 
tion of a man she loves when separated from him by 
distance or a period of years? Memory, reduced to 
recalling her charms only, becomes gradually dim, and 
at last forgets, especially when the lover is a great man. 
But when the latter has had the good fortune to meet 
with a strong-minded woman, one worthy of sharing his 
laurels, and herself enjoying a high reputation, then the 
distance of time and space disappears, for it is the renown 
of both which serves as. messenger between them, and it 
is through the hundred mouths of fame that each receives 
intelligence of the other. 

Bon. Madame, in what chapter of the^ork you are 
about to publish shall we read this brilliant passage? 

St. It has been the constant illusion of my soul. 

Bon. Ah, I understand ; it is your hobby, after the 
manner of Sterne. So you are seeking the philosopher’s 
stone ? 

St. One would think, to hear you talk, that it is im- 
possible to find it. 

Bon. There are two illusions in this world, though both 
v; . t flowfrom the same error ; that of physical and that of moral 
'-alchemy. This idealistic philosophy leads to an abyss. 

St. One, nevertheless, which wit and sagacity may 
illumine with the rays of genius to its inmost recesses. 
Do you never build castles in the air, General ? Do you 
never go and dwell in them ? Do you never dream, to 
charm away the monotony of life? 

Bon. I leave dreams to sleep, and retain reason for my 
waking hours. 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


xiii 


St. Then yon can never be either amused or surprised % 
You have a scouting party stationed to watch that out- 
post, the imagination ? 

Bon. Wisdom counsels me to do so, and makes it my 
duty. 

St. — after a moment’s reflection. — General, who, in 
your opinion, is the greatest of women ? 

Bon. She who hears the most children.* 

Madame de Staël turned slightly pale at this reply, 
and said no more. The General rose, bowed, and quitted 
the room. Both carried away from the interview the 
elements of mutual dislike and ..food for a life-long hos- 
tility. “ Doubtless,” says Lacretelle, “ this last question 
was suggested by the vanity of the inquirer.” And 
Bonaparte, eager to deprive the lady of the tribute she 
expected in his reply, made answer as we have described. 
“Certainly,” adds Lacretelle, “it was impossible to 
rebuff a courtesy with greater rudeness and less discern- 
ment, for Madame de Staël was one of the powers of the 
day.” f 

One evening, early in the Consulate, Josephine met 
Madame de Staël at the house of Madame de Montesson. 
Bonaparte was to come somewhat later. Josephine, 
knowing his aversion for her, or fearing her seductions if 
she were successful in obtaining his attention, received 
her, as she advanced, in a manner so markedly cold, if 
not rude, that Madame de Staël recoiled without speak- 
ing, and retreated to the extremity of the room, where 
she dropped into a chair. 

She remained for some time apart and alone. The 

* Napoléon et ses Contemporains, i. 229. 
f Lac. Rév. Française, ii. 140. 


Xiv MADAME DE STAËL. 

pretty women took a malicious pleasure in the mortifica- 
tion of one of their own sex, while the gentlemen 
indulged in impertinent and unmanly remarks. At this 
moment, a young girl of extreme beauty and light airy 
step, with blond hair and blue eyes, and dressed entirely 
in white, left the group that had collected in the vicinity 
of Josephine, crossed the salon, and sat down by 
Madame de Staël. The latter, whose heart was as quick 
as her wit was ready, said to her, “ You are as good as 
you are beautiful, my child.” 

“ In what, pray, madame ?” asked the young lady. 

“ In what ?” returned Madame de Staël. “ You ask 
me why I think you as kind as you are fair ? Because 
you crossed this immense and deserted salon to come 
and sit by me. Upon my word, you are more courage- 
ous than I should have been.” 

“ And yet, madame, I am naturally so timid that I 
should not dare to tell you my fears and trepidation : you 
would laugh at me, I am sure.” 

“ Laugh at you !” exclaimed Madame de Staël, with 
moistened eyes and trembling voice ; “ laugh at you ! 
never! never! I am your sister, henceforth, my dear, 
dear young friend! Will you tell me your Christian 
name ?” 

“ Delphine, madame.” 

“ Delphine ! What a pretty name ! I am very glad 
of it, for it will suit my purpose exactly. You must 
know, love, that I am writing a novel ; and I mean it to 
bear your name. You shall be its god-mother ; and you 
will find something in it which will remind you of to-day 
and of our acquaintance.” 

Madame de Staël kept her promise, and the passage in 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


XV 

the novel of Delphine, in which the heroine, abandoned, 
is under similiar circumstances relieved and sustained 
by Madame de It., was written in commemoration of this 
little domestic scene.* 

Bonaparte soon entered the room, and ignorant of the 
treatment Madame de Staël had undergone from Jose- 
phine, accosted her graciously, and indeed took evident 
pains to restrain, during their conversation, his intuitive 
dislike of the petticoat politician. 

Madame de Staël was now at the apogee of her talent 
and influence. Her conversation was not what is usually 
understood by the term. She did not require so much 
an interlocutor as a listener. Her improvisations were 
long and sustained pleas, if her object was to convince, 
or discursive though brilliant harangues, if she sought 
to display her wealth of thought and of words. Those 
that were accustomed to her ways rarely answered her, 
even if, in the heat of argument, she addressed them a 
question ; well aware that it was rather to operate a 
diversion than to elicit a reply. She required the excite- 
ment of an audience, and her eloquence became richer 
and more rapid as the circle of her listeners widened. 
She preferred contradiction and dissent to a blind accep- 
tance of her opinions, and the surest method of pleasing 
her was to adduce arguments that she might refute them, 
and which might suggest in her mind new trains of ideas. 
Controversy was her peculiar element, and she sometimes 
resorted to the cliarlatanical process of advocating two 
opposite opinions on the same occasion, in order to show 
the flexibility of her mind and the pliancy of her ljgic. 
In the season of foliage, she invariably carried in her 


Vide “ Delphine,” vol. ii. 386. 


XVI 


MADAME DE STAËL 


hand a twig of poplar, which, when talking, she would 
turn and twist between her fingers ; the crackling of this, 
she said, stimulated her brain. During the season when 
the poplar produces no leaves, she substituted for the 
twig a piece of rolled paper with which she was forced 
,to be content, till the return of verdure. In winter, her 
'flatterers and admirers always had a supply of these 
papers prepared, and presented her a quantity, on her 
arrival at a fête or a conversazione, that she might select 
her sceptre for the evening.* The famous twig of pop- 
lar is introduced in Gerard’s portrait of Madame de Staël.f 
She w T as never handsome, and without the extraordi- 
nary depth and brilliancy of her eyes, would have been a 
plain, if not an ugly woman. Her nose and mouth were 
homely, and only redeemed by her ever-varying expies- 
sion. lier complexion was rough, her form massive 
rather than graceful, and indicated indolence rather than 
vivacity. Her hands were beautiful, and ill-natured 
people asserted that the poplar twig was a mere pretext 
for keeping them constantly in view. She dressed at all 
times without taste, and this defect became more conspi- 
cuous as she advanced in years, for at the age of forty- 
five she wore the colors and ornaments which would befit 
a young lady of twenty. Her coiffure was usually a 
turban, though this was not the prevailing fashion. Her 
partisans denied that there w^as any exaggeration in her 
toilet, though they allowed that she sought to be pictures- 
que rather than fashionable. 

* Ducrest, Mém. de Josephine, 23. 

f It is from a copy of this portrait, by Gerard, in the Historical Gal- 
lery of Versailles, that the most accurate likenesses of Madame de Staël 
are taken. 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


xvii 


Biography has preserved examples almost innumer- 
able of the readiness of her wit and the profundity of 
her observation. The love of truth was one of her pro- 
minent characteristics. “ I saw,” she said “ that Bona 
parte was declining, when he no longer sought for the 
truth.” She held long arguments on equality, and^aid 
on one occasion, “ I would not refuse the opinion of the 
lowest of my domestics, if the slightest of my own 
impressions tended to justify his.” Her respect for jus- 
tice and moderation was evinced in her reply to the 
remark of a Bourbon after Napoleon’s fall, to the effect 
that Bonaparte had neither talent nor courage : “ It is de- 
grading France and Europe too much, sir, to pretend that 
for fifteen years they have been subject to a simpleton 
and a poltroon !” She despised affectation, and said that 
she could not converse with an affected man or woman 
on account of the constant interruptions of a tedious third 
person— their unnatural and affected character. Of indi- 
viduals accustomed to exaggerate, she said : “To put 
100 for 10, why, there’s no imagination in that.” Her 
faith was sincere and unostentatious, and she would 
remark, after listening to lofty metaphysical discourses, 
“ Well, I like the Lord’s Prayer better than that.” One 
of her best replies was made to Canning, in the Tuileries, 
after the exile of Napoleon: “Well, Madame de Staël, 
we have conquered you French, you see !” “ If you 

have, sir, it was because you had the Bussians and the 
whole continent on your side. Give us a tête-à-tête, and 
you will see !” 

Madame de Staël’s conduct as a wife was not irre- 
proachable. Talleyrand was one of the first, though by 
no means the last, of her lovers. It was after his rupture 


xviii 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


with Madame de Staël that he entered upon his liaison 
with Madame Grandt, and it was this circumstance that 
led Madame de Staël to ask him the most unfortunate 
question of her life, for it gave him the opportunity of 
making the most comprehensive reply of his : “ If 
Madame Grandt and I were to fall into the water, Talley- 
rand,” she inquired, “which of us would you save first?” 
“Oh, madame,” returned the minister, “you swim so 
well !” She was revenged on him by drawing — though 
not very delicately — his character as a diplomatist : “ He 
is so double-faced,” she said, “that if you kick him 
behind, he will smile in front.” 

Bonaparte, early in the Consulate, sought through his 
brother Joseph, to attach Madame de Staël to his govern- 
ment ; he might have done so, had he cared to conciliate 
her by expressing, or even feigning, deference to her 
talents and opinions. But he did not pursue the negotia- 
tion, and she continued her political discussions at her 
house, devoting her days to intrigues, and her evenings 
to epigrams; until Bonaparte, whose patience was 
exhausted, and who did not consider his power as yet 
fully established, directed his minister of police to banish 
her from Paris. She was ordered not to return within 
forty leagues of the city. He is said to have remarked, 
“ I leave the whole world open to Madame de Staël, 
except Paris ; that I reserve to myself.” It was urged, 
too, that she had small claims to consideration ; she was, 
though born in France, hardly a Frenchwoman, being 
the daughter of a Swiss and the wife of a Swede. 

During a period of years, Madame de Staël remained 
under the ban of Bonaparte’s displeasure, though, during 
a short interval, the intercessions of her father obtained 


MADAME DE STAËL. xlx 

permission for her to inhabit the capital. In 1803, she 
published her “Delphine,” a work so immoral in its ten- 
dency that it incurred the censure of the critics and the 
public, and compelled the authoress to put forth a species 
of apology, which in its turn was considered lame and 
inconclusive. The character of Madame de Yernon, in 
“Delphine,” was said to have been intended for Talley- 
rand, clothed in female garb. 

Unable to endure the deprivation of her Parisian 
friends, Madame de Staël soon established herself at the 
distance of thirty miles from Paris. Bonaparte was told 
that her residence was crowded with visitors from the 
capital. “She affects,” he said, “to speak neither of 
public affairs nor of me ; yet it invariably happens that 
every one comes out of her house less attached to me 
than when he went in.” An order for her departure was 
soon served upon her, and she set forth upon a pilgrim- 
age through Germany. 

In the last week of December, 1807, Napoleon, return- 
ing from Italy, stopped at the post-house of Chambéry, 
in Sardinia, for a fresh relay of horses. He was told 
that a young man of seventeen years, named Auguste de 
Staël, desired to speak with him. “ What have I to do 
with these refugees of Geneva ?” said Napoleon, tartly. 
He ordered him to be admitted, however. “ Where is 
your mother ?” said Napoleon, opening the conversation. 
“ She is at Yienna, sire.” “ Ah, she must be satisfied 
now ; she will have fine opportunities for learning Ger- 
man.” “Sire, your majesty cannot suppose that my 
mother can be satisfied anywhere, separated from her 
friends and driven from her country. If your majesty 
would condescend to glance at these private letters, writ* 


XX 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


ten by my mother, you would see, sire, what unhappiness 
her exile causes her.” “ Oh, pooh ! that’s the way with 
your mother. I do not say she is a bad woman ; but her 
mind is insubordinate and rebellious. She was brought 
up in the chaos of a falling monarchy, and of a revolu- 
tion running riot, and it has turned her head. If I were 
to allow her to return, six months would not pass before 
I should be obliged to shut her up in Bedlam, or put her 
under lock and key at the Temple. I should be sorry to 
do it, for it would make scandal, and injure me in public 
opinion. Tell your mother my mind is made up. As 
long as I live, she shall not again set foot in Paris.” 

“Sire, I am so sure that my mother would conduct 
herself with propriety that I pray you to grant her a trial, 
if it be only for six weeks.” “ It cannot be. She would 
make herself the standard-bearer of the faubourg St. 
Germain. She would receive visits, would return them, 
would make witticisms, and do a thousand follies. Ho, 
young man, no.” “Will your majesty allow a son to 
i n quire the cause of this hostility to his mother ? I have 
been told it was the last work of my grandfather ; I can 
assure your majesty that my mother had no hand in it.” 
“ Certainly, that book had its effect. Your grandfather 
was an idealist, an old maniac ; at sixty years of age, to 
attempt to overturn my constitution and to replace it by 
one of his ! An economist, indeed ! A man who dreams 
financial schemes and could hardly perform the duties of a 
village tax-gatherer decently ! Robespierre and Danton 
have done less harm to France than M. Hecker. Your 
grandfather is the cause of the saturnalia which have 
desolated France. Upon his head be all the blood of the 
Revolution 1” “Sire, I trust that posterity will speak 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


XXÎ 


more favorably of him. During his administration, he 
was compared with Sully and Colbert, and I trust to the 
justice of posterity.” “ Posterity will perhaps not speak 
of him at all,” returned Napoleon. 

“ You are young, M. de Staël,” he added, changing his 
tone, and taking the petitioner familiarly by the ear. 
“ Your frankness pleases me : I like to see a son plead 
the cause of his mother. She confided to you a difficult 
mission, and you have discharged it with intelligence. I 
cannot give you false hopes, so I do not conceal from 
you that you will obtain nothing whatever. I’ll have 
none of your mother in the city where I dwell. Women 
should knit stockings, and not talk politics.” As Napo- 
leon rode away from Chambéry, he said to Duroc, “Was 
I not rather hard with that young man ? After all, I am 
glad of it. The thing is settled once for all. France is 
no place for the family of Necker.” * 

During the absence of Madame de Staël in Germany, 
her father died, and she hastened to return to Coppet. 
She collected and published his writings, and appended 
to them a biographical memoir. She cherished his me- 
mory with a passion bordering on monomania, which led 
her, whenever see saw an old man in affliction, to seek to 
alleviate his sorrows. She often said, upon hearing good 
news, “ I owe this to the intercessions of my father.” 

She found it difficult satisfactorily to occupy her lei- 
sure. She used to say that she would prefer living on 
two thousand francs a year in the Pue Jean Pain Mollet 
at Paris, to spending one hundred thousand at Geneva. 
But she made no effort to obtain a recall, at least by 


* Bour. viii. 101. 


xxii 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


imposing restraint upon her tongue. Knowing that she 
was surrounded by spies, and that her bitter allusions to 
Napoleon were reported at the Tuileries, she continued 
to exhaust her wit upon the acts of his government, and 
upon the tyranny of him whom she called “ Robespierre 
on horseback.” 

Amateur theatricals, upon a diminutive stage built for 
the purpose, afforded some amusement to the exile of 
Coppet. The audiences were principally French resi- 
dents at Geneva, whose ambition to be able to boast of 
their admission into Madame de Staël’s intimacy, induced 
them to travel the wearisome road which separated the 
two places. While waiting foi the lamps to be lighted, 
they ate bread and chocolate in the dark — this being the 
traditional lunch that a Frenchman carries in his pocket. 
On one occasion, the performance was Racine’s tragedy 
of Andromaque. Madame de Staël played Hermione 
effectively, it would seem, but with a redundancy of 
gesture that somewhat marred the illusion. Madame 
Récamier acted Andromaque, the interesting widow ; but 
the critics were so absorbed in the contemplation of her 
wondrous beauty that they have left little record of her 
histrionic ability. The characters of Oreste, Pylade and 
Pyrrhus were performed by M. de Labéboyère, Benjamin 
Constant and Sismondi, the historian. The two latter 
were very amusing, it appears, though the play being a 
tragedy, mirth could hardly have been the effect they 
desired to produce. Benjamin Constant, whose gestures 
were very broad and sweeping, once carried away a 
Grecian temple with the palm of his hand; Sismondi 
gave infinite zest to the representation by the purity of 
his Genevese accent. The prompter was M. Schlegel^ 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


xxiii 


the poet, critic and historian. His strong German pro- 
nunciation rendered him at best an inefficient assistant, 
for the actor, whose memory was treacherous, often failed 
to recognize the missing line, in the husky and guttural 
suggestions of the author of “ Lucinde.” 

The health of Madame de Staël was now declining, 
and in order to recruit it she undertook a journey through 
Italy. On her return, she published “ Corinne,” a poetic 
description of the peninsula, in the form of a novel. 
Though deficient in construction and dramatic power, it 
possesses the highest merit as a work delineating cha- 
racter and descriptive of scenery, and inculcates a pure 
morality. Incident and plot form its least attractive 
features; its eloquent rhapsodies upon love, religion, 
virtue, nature, history and poetry, have given it an 
enduring place in literature. She now took up her 
abode at the required distance from Paris, at Chaumont- 
sur-Loire, where she inhabited the chateau already fa- 
mous as the residence of Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de 
Medicis, and Nostradamus the soothsayer, and at this 
time in the possession of one of her most attached friends. 
She here wrote and prepared for the press a work on the 
habits, character and literature of the Germans. The 
manuscript was laid before the censors at Paris, who 
expunged certain passages, and then authorized its pub- 
lication. This was in 1810 . 

Ten thousand copies had been already printed, when 
the whole edition was seized at the publishers’, by gen- 
darmes sent by Savary, the minister of police. Madame 
de Staël was ordered to quit France in eight days. She 
withdrew again to Coppet, from whence she opened a 
correspondence with Savary upon this arbitrary, and 


Xxiv MADAME DE STAËL. 

indeed illegal, proceeding. Slie had been given to under- 
stand that the motive for the suppression was her omis- 
sion to mention the name of Napoleon in connection 
with Germany, where his armies had lately made him 
conspicuous. She wrote to Savary that she did not see 
how she could have introduced the Emperor and Ins 
“ soldiery ” into a purely literary work. To this Savary 
replied that she was misinformed upon the motive whica 
had actuated him, and that her exile was the natural con - 
sequence of her conduct for years past. “ We are not sc 
reduced in France,” he added, “ as to seek for models 
among the nations which you admire. Your hook is 
not French, and the air of France does not suit you.” 
This impertinent letter was prefixed to the first edition 
of Germany ” published in London, in 1813. 

During her residence at Coppet, Madame de Staël, now 
a widow and forty-two years of age, became acquainted 
with M. de Rocca, a French officer. She felt an interest 
in him even before she saw him, for he was said to be 
young, noble and brave ; what was a still more attrac- 
tive feature, he was wounded and an invalid. They first 
met in a public ball-room. She was dressed, it appears, 
in a gaudy and unbecoming style, and was followed from 
point to point by a train of admirers and flatterers. “ Is 
that the famous woman ?” said de Rocca. “ She is very 
plain, and I abhor such continual aiming at effect.” She 
spoke to him, expressed sympathy for his condition, and 
speedily effected a complete revolution in his opinions. 
From a caviller he became an admirer, and from an 
admirer a suitor. They were privately married, and the 
secret was carefully kept until the reading of her will, 
after her death, for she felt that the match was an ill. 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


XXV 


assorted one, and could hardly fail to excite ridicule. 
Besides, she was unwilling to change her name, “ as it 
belonged to Europe,” to quote her own words to De 
Rocca. 

The tyranny to which she was subjected at the period 
of this marriage, by Napoleon, became annoying and 
perplexing. She was not only exiled from France, but 
warned not to go further than six miles from Coppet. 
Mathieu de Montmorency was exiled for visiting her, as 
w T as also Madame Récamier, as has already been narrated. 
M. Schlegel, who aided her in the education of her three 
children, was compelled to leave her. She was seized 
with the gloomiest apprehensions, and resolved to escape 
from the sphere of Napoleon’s power. The prefect of 
Geneva was instructed, from Paris, to suggest to 
Madame de Staël a means of recovering the sovereign’s 
good graces — the publication of some loyal stanzas upon 
the birth of Napoleon’s heir. • “ Tell those that sent 
you,” she replied, “ that I have no wishes in connection 
with the King of Rome, except the desire that his mother 
get him a healthy wet-nurse.” 

She now passed her time in studying the map of 
Europe, in choosing an asylum, and in devising a route 
by which to get to it. She at last departed for Eng- 
land, which she approached through Russia and Sweden. 
Once beyond French influence, she was treated with the 
highest consideration and the warmest cordiality* 
Among the distinguised men admitted to her intimacy, 
Lord Byron held the first place, and she often gave him 
advice both upon his conduct and his verse. It was now 
that she published her “ Germany.” She had the deep 
satisfaction of seeing her reputation as a critic and deli- 


XXVÎ MADAME DE STAËL. 

neator of national manners elevated by it to tbe highest 
point. 

She welcomed with delight the overthrow and abdica- 
tion of Napoleon, and at once returned to Paris, where 
she attached herself to the party advocating a represen- 
tative government under Louis XVIII. The restored 
sovereign caused the royal treasury to pay to her family 
the two million francs due M. Necker at his retirement 
from office — a measure of justice to which Napoleon would 
never consent. During the Hundred Days she retired to 
Switzerland, totally weaned from all interest in public 
life. Her health began to fail, and she still further weak- 
ened it by the use of opium. She devoted herself closely 
to the composition of her last work, the “ French Dévo- 
lution, 55 which now ranks as one of the most philosophi- 
cal, though perhaps not the most impartial, histories of 
that period. Her sleepless nights she spent in prayer ; 
she became gentle, patient and devout. “ I think I 
know, 55 she said, in her last moments, “ what the passage 
from life to death is. I am convinced the goodness of 
God makes, it easy ; our thoughts become indistinct, and 
the pain is not great. 55 She died with perfect composure, 
in 1817, in the fifty-first year of her age. Her husband, 
who was devotedly attached to her, survived her but a 
few months. 

Madame de Staël was the most distinguished authoress 
of her time. As a woman, she was always independent 
and sincere, and her faults — vanity and an uncontrollable 
thirst for applause — may easily be pardoned in view of 
her many talents. Napoleon could have won her to his 
government at any moment, had he chosen to do so. It 
is perhaps fortunate for literature that she was com 


MADAME DE STAËL. 


xxvii 


pelled to live in isolation, as neither “ Corinne ” nor 
“ Germany ” would have been written had she been able 
to reside in Paris, instead of travelling to occupy her 
exile. It is a singular and not unfair commentary upon 
Napoleon’s reign, that its most remarkable literary cele- 
brity — in point of mere chronology — owed her supremacy 
to his persecution ; and it is a permissible inference, that 
had his government preferred to foster and cherish her 
genius, Madame de Staël would have been known to 
posterity as little more than a precocious child, a brilliant 
conversationalist, an unsexed woman, and a factious polit? 
eian. 






*; 



















V 






. 

' I - > r . * * j 

















1 

• 


















* 

' 

♦ 

. 
















•• : 















* 

. 

* 








* 
















CORINNE 


BOOK I. 

OSWALD. 


CHAPTER I. 

In the year 1794, Oswald, Lord Nevil, a Scotch nobleman, left 
Edinburgh to pass the winter in Italy.* He possessed a noble 
and handsome person, a fine mind, a great name, an independent 
fortune ; but his health was impaired; and the physicians, fear- 
ing that his lungs were affected, prescribed the air of the south. 
He followed their advice, though with little interest in his own 
recovery, hoping, at least, to find some amusement in the varied 
objects he was about to behold. The heaviest of all affiictions, 
the loss of a father, was the cause of his malady. The remorse 
inspired by scrupulous delicacy still more embittered his regret, 
and haunted his imagination. Such sufferings we readily con- 
vince ourselves that we deserve, for violent griefs extend their 
influence even over the realms of conscience. At five-and-twenty 
he was tired of life; he judged the future by the past, and no 
longer relished the illusions of the heart. No one could be more 
devoted to the service of his friends ; yet not even the good he 
effected gave him one sensation of pleasure. Ho constantly 

* Neither of these names is Scotch. We are not informed whether the 
hero’s Christian name is Oswald, or Nevil his family one, as well as his 
title. He signs (he former to his letters, and constantly calls himself an 
Englishman. — Translator. 

1* m 


6 


CORINNE; OR, I T A I Y . 

sacrificed his tastes to those of others ; hut this generosity alone, 
far from proving a total forgetfulness of self, may often be 
attributed to a degree of melancholy, which renders a man care- 
less of his own doom. The indifferent considered this mood 
extremely graceful; but those who loved him felt that he em- 
ployed himself for the happiness of others, like a man who hoped 
for none ; and they almost repined at receiving felicity from one 
on whom they could never bestow it. His natural disposition 
was versatile, sensitive, and impassioned; uniting all the qualities 
which could excite himself or others ; but misfortune and repent- 
ance had rendered him timid, and he thought to disarm, by 
exacting nothing from fate. He trusted to find, in a firm 
adherence to his duties, and a renouncement of all enjoyments, a 
security against the sorrows which had distracted him. Nothing 
in the world seemed worth the risk of these pangs; but while we 
are still capable of feeling them, to what kind of life can we fly 
for shelter ? 

Lord Nevil flattered himself that he should quit Scotland 
without regret, as he had remained there without pleasure ; but 
the dangerous dreams of imaginative minds are not thus fulfilled ; 
he was sensible of the ties which bound him to the scene of his 
miseries, the home of his father. There were rooms he could not 
approach without a shudder, and yet, when he had resolved to fly 
them, he felt more alone than ever. A barren dearth seized on 
his heart; he could no longer weep; no more recall those little 
local associations which had so deeply melted him ; his recollec- 
tions had less of life ; they belonged not to the things that sur- 
rounded him. He did not think the less of those he mourned, 
hut it became more difficult to conjure back their presence. 
Sometimes, too, he reproached himself for abandoning the place 
where his father had dwelt. “Who knows,” would he sigh, “if 
the shades of the dead follow the objects of their affection? They 
may not be permitted to wander beyond the spots where their 
ashes repose ! Perhaps, at this moment, is my father deploring 
my absence, powerless to recall me. Alas ! may not a host of 
wild events have persuaded him that I have betrayed his tender* 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 7 

ness, turned rebel to my country, to his will, and all that is sacred 
on earth V 1 

These remembrances occasioned him such insupportable despair, 
that, far from daring to confide them to any one, he dreaded to 
sound their depths himself ; so easy is it, out of our own reflec- 
tions, to create irreparable evils ! 

It costs added pain to leave one’s country, when one must cross 
the sea. There is such solemnity in a pilgrimage, the first steps 
of which are on the ocean. It seems as if a gulf were opening 
behind you, and your return becoming impossible ; besides, the 
sight of the main always profoundly impresses us, as the image 
of that infinitude which perpetually attracts the soul, and in 
which thought ever feels herself lost. Oswald, leaning near the 
helm, his eyes fixed on the waves, appeared perfectly calm. Pride 
and diffidence generally prevented his betraying his emotions even 
before his friends ; but sad feelings struggled within. He thought 
on the time when that spectacle animated his youth with a desire 
to buffet the tides, and measure his strength with theirs. 

“Why,” he bitterly mused, “why thus constantly yield to 
meditation ? There is such rapture in active life ! in those Solent 
exercises that make us feel the energy of existence ! then death 
itself may appear glorious; at least it is sudden, and not preceded 
by decay; but that death which finds us without being bravely 
sought — that gloomy death which steals from you, in a night, all 
you held dear, which mocks your regrets, repulses your embrace, 
and pitilessly opposes to your desire the eternal laws of time and 
nature — that death inspires a kind of contempt for human des- 
tiny, for the powerlessness of grief, and all the vain efforts that 
wreck themselves against necessity.” 

Such were the torturing sentiments which characterized tho 
wretchedness of his state. The vivacity of youth was united with 
the thoughts of another age ; such as might well have occupied 
the mind of his father in his last hours; but Oswald tinted the 
melancholy contemplations of age with the ardor of five-and-tweuty. 
He was weary of everything; yet, nevertheless, lamented his lost 
content, as if its visions still lingered. 


8 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


This inconsistency, entirely at variance with the will of nature 
(which has placed the conclusion and the gradation of things in 
their rightful course), disordered the depths of his soul; but his 
manners were ever sweet and harmonious; nay, his grief, far from 
injuring his temper, taught him a still greater degree of consider- 
ation and gentleness for others. 

Twice or thrice in the voyage from Harwich to Emden the sea 
threatened stormily. Nevil directed the sailors, reassured the 
passengers; and while, toiling himself, he for a moment took the 
pilot’s place, there was a vigour and address in what he did, 
which could not be regarded as the simple effect of personal 
strength and activity, for mind pervaded it all. 

When they were about to part, all on board crowded round him 
to take leave, thanking him for a thousand good offices, which he 
had forgotten : sometimes it was a child that he had nursed so 
long; more frequently, some old man whose steps he had sup- 
ported while the wind rocked the vessel. Such an absence of 
personal feeling was scarcely ever known. His voyage had passed 
without his having devoted a moment to himself; he gave up 
his time to others, in melancholy benevolence. And now the 
whole crew cried, with one voice, “ God bless you, my Lord ! we 
wish you better.” 

Yet Oswald had not once complained ; and the persons of a 
higher class, who had crossed with him, said not a word on this 
subject; but the common people, in whom their superiors rarely 
confide, are wont to detect the truth without the aid of words; 
they pity you when you suffer, though ignorant of the cause ; and 
their spontaneous sympathy is unmixed with either censure or 
advice. 


CHAPTER II. 

Travelling, say what we will, is one of the saddest pleasures 
in life. If you ever feel at ease in a strange place, it is because 
you have begun to make it your home ; but to traverse unknown 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


9 


lands, to hear a language which you hardly compr< /xûjü * look 
on faces unconnected with either your past or \ lure, this is 
solitude without repose or dignity; for the hurry t. arrive where 
no one awaits you, that agitation whose sole caufr* is curiosity, 
lessens you in your own esteem, while, ere new objects can be- 
come old, they have bound you by some sweet link*/ of sentiment 
and habit. 

Oswald felt his despondency redoubled in crossing Germany to 
reach Italy, obliged by war to avoid France and its frontiers, as 
well as the troops, who rendered the roads impassable. This 
necessity for attending to detail, and taking, almost every instant, 
a new resolution, was utterly insufferable. His health, instead of 
improving, often obliged him to stop, while he longed to arrive at 
some other place, or at least to fly from where he was. He took 
the least possible care of his constitution; accusing himself as 
culpable, with but too great severity. If he wished still to live, 
it was but' for the defence of his country. 

“ My native land,” would he sigh — “has it not a parental right 
over me? but I want power to serve it usefully. I must not offer 
it the feeble existence which I drag towards the sun, to beg of 
him some principle of life, that may struggle against my woes. 
None but a father could receive me thus, and love me the more, 
the more I was deserted by nature and by fate.” 

He had flattered himself that a continual change of external 
objects would somewhat divert his fancy from its usual routine; 
but he could not, at first, realize this effect. It were better, after 
any great loss, to familiarize ourselves afresh with all that had 
surrounded us, accustom ourselves to the old familiar faces, to 
the house in which we had lived, and the daily duties which we 
ought to resume; each of these efforts jars fearfully on the heart; 
but nothing multiplies them like an absence. 

Oswald’s only pleasure was exploring the Tyrol, on a horse 
which he had brought from Scotland, and who climbed the hills 
at a gallop. The astonished peasants began by shrieking with 
fright, as they saw him borne along the precipice’s edge, and 
tmded by chapping their hands in admiration of his dexterity 


10 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


grace, and courage. He loved the sense of danger. It reconciled 
him for the instant with that life which he thus seemed to regain, 
and which it would have been easy to lose. 


CHAPTER III. 

At Inspruck, where he stayed for some time, in the house of a 
banker, Oswald was much interested by the history of Count 
d’Erfeuil, a French emigrant, who had sustained the total loss of 
an immense fortune with perfect serenity. By his musical talents 
he had maintained himself and an aged uncle, over whom he 
watched till the good man’s death, constantly refusing the pecu- 
niary aid which had been pressed on him. He had displayed the 
most brilliant valor — that of France — during the war, and an 
unchangeable gayety in the midst of reverses. He was anxious 
to visit Rome, that he might find a relative, whose heir he ex- 
pected to become; and wished for a companion, or rather a friend, 
with whom to make the journey agreeably. 

Lord Nevil’s saddest recollections were attached to France; yet 
he was exempt from the prejudices which divided the two nations. 
One Frenchman had been his intimate friend, in whom he had 
found a union of the most estimable qualities. He therefore 
offered, through the narrator of Count d’Erfeuil’s story, to take this 
noble and unfortunate young man with him to Italy. The banker 
in an hour informed him that his proposal was gratefully accepted. 
Oswald rejoiced in rendering this service to another, though it 
cost him much to resign his seclusion ; and his reserve suffered 
greatly at the prospect of finding himself thus thrown on the 
society of a man he did not know. 

He shortly received a visit of thanks from the Count, who 
possessed an elegant manner, ready politeness, and good taste; 
from the first appearing perfectly at his case. Every one, on 
seeing £im, wondered at what he had undergone; for he bore his 
lot with a courage approaching to forgetfulness. There was a 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


11 


liveliness in his conversation truly admirable, while he spoke of 
his own misfortunes; though less so, it must be owned, when ex- 
tended to other subjects. 

“ I am greatly obliged to your Lordship,” said he, u for trans- 
porting me from Germany, of which I am tired to death.” — 
“And yet,” replied Nevil, “you are universally beloved and 
respected here.” — “ I have friends, indeed, whom I shall sincerely 
regret; for in this country one meets none but the best of people ; 
only I don’t know a word of German ; and . you will confess that 
it were a long and tedious task to learn it. Since I had the ill- 
luck to lose my uncle, I have not known what to do with my leisure; 
while I had to attend on him, that filled up my time; but now 
the four-and-twenty hours hang heavily on my hands.” — “ The 
delicacy of your conduct towards your kinsman, Count,” said 
Nevil, “'has impressed me with the deepest regard for you.” — “I 
did no more than my duty. Poor man ! he had lavished his 
favors on my childhood. I could never have left him, had he 
lived to be a hundred; but ’tis well for him that he’s gone ; ’twere 
well for me to be with him,” he added, laughing, “for I’ve little 
to hope in this world. I did my best, during the war, to get 
killed ; but since fate would spare me, I must live on as I may.” 
— “I shall congratulate myself on coming hither,” answered 
Nevil, “should you do well in Rome; and if ” — “ Oh, Hea- 

ven !” interrupted d’Erfeuil, “I do well enough everywhere; 
while we are young and cheerful, all things find their level. ’Tis 
neither from books nor from meditation that I have acquired my 
philosophy, but from being used to the world and its mishaps ; 
nay, you see, my Lord, I have some reason for trusting to chance, 
since I owe to it the opportunity of travelling with you.” The 
Count then agreed on the hour for setting forth next day, and, 
with a graceful bow, departed. After the mere interchange of 
civilities with which their journey commenced, Oswald remained 
silent for some hours ; but perceiving that this fatigued his fel- 
low-traveller, he asked him if he anticipated much pleasure in 
their Italian tour. “Oh,” replied the Count, “I know what to 
expect, and don’t look forward to the least amusement. A friend 


12 


CORINNEj OR, ITALY. 


of mine passed six months there, and tells me that there is not a 
French province without a better theatre, and more agreeable 
society than Rome; but in that ancient capital of the world 1 
shall be sure to find some of my countrymen to chat with ; and 
that is all I require/' — “'Then you have not been tempted to 
learn Italian ?" — “No, that was never included in the plan of my 
studies," he answered, with so serious an air, that one might have 
thought him expressing a resolution founded on the gravest 
motives. “The fact is," he continued, “that I like no people 
but the English and the French. Men must be proud, like you, 
or wits, like ourselves; all the rest is mere imitation/' Oswald 
said nothing. A few moments afterwards the Count renewed the 
conversation by sallies of vivacity and humor, in which he played 
on words most ingeniously; but neither what he saw or what he 
felt was his theme. His discourse sprang not from within, nor 
from without; but, steering clear alike of reflection and imagina- 
tion, found its subjects in the superficial traits of society. He 
named twenty persons in France and England, inquiring if Lord 
Nevil knew them ; and relating as many pointed anecdotes, as if, 
in his opinion, the only language for a man of taste was the gossip 
of good company. Nevil pondered for some time on this singular 
combination of courage and frivolity, this contenopt of misfortune, 
which would have been so heroic if it had cost more effort, instead 
of springing from the same source which rendered him incapable 
of deep affections. “An Englishman," thought he, “would have 
been overwhelmed by similar circumstances. Whence does this 
Frenchman derive his fortitude, yet pliancy of character? Does 
he rightly understand the art of living ? I deem myself his 
superior, yet am I not ill and wretched ? Does his trifling course 
accord better than mine with the fleetness of life? Must one fly 
from thought as from a foe, instead of yielding all the soul to 
its power?" In vain he thought to clear these doubts; he could 
call no aid from his own intellectual region, whose best qualities 
were even more ungovernable than its defects. 

The Count gave none of his attention to Italy, and rendered it 
almost impossible for Oswald to be entertained by it. D’Erfeud 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


V6 


turned from his friend’s admiration of a fine country, and sense 
of its picturesque charm ; our invalid listened as oft as he could 
to the sound of the winds, or the murmur of the waves ; the voice 
of nature did more for his mind than sketches of coteries held at 
the foot of the Alps, among ruins, or on the banks of the sea. 
His own grief would have been less an obstacle to the pleasure he 
might have tasted than was the mirth of d’Erfeuil. The regrets 
of a feeling heart may harmonize with a contemplation of nature 
and an enjoyment of the fine arts; but frivolity, under whatever 
form it appears, deprives attention of its power, thought of its 
originality, and sentiment of its depth. One strange effect of the 
Count’s levity, was its inspiring Nevil with diffidence in all their 
affairs together. 

The most reasoning characters are often the easiest abashed. 
The giddy embarrass and overawe the contemplative; and the 
being who calls himself happy appears wiser than he who suffers. 
D’Erfeuil was every way mild, obliging, and free ; serious only 
in his self-love, and worthy to be liked as much as he could like 
another; that is, as a good companion in pleasure and in peril, 
but one who knew not how to participate in pain. He wearied 
of Oswald’s melancholy; and, as well from the goodness of hi3 
heart as from taste, he strove to dissipate it. “ What would you 
have ?” he often said. “ Are you not young, rich, and well, if 
you choose ? you are but fancy -sick. I have lost all, and know 
not what will become of me; yet I enjoy life as if I possessed 
every earthly blessing.” — “Your courage is as rare as it is 
honorable,” replied Nevil ; “ but the reverses you have known 
wound less than do the sorrows of the heart.” — “ The sorrows of 
the heart ! ay, true, they must be the worst of all ; but still you 
must console yourself; for a sensible man ought to banisl> from 
his mind whatever can be of no service to himself or others. Are 
we not placed here below to be useful first, and consequently 
happy ? My dear Nevil, let us hold by that faith.” 

All this was rational enough, in the usual sense of the word ; 
for d’Erfeuil was, in most respects, a clear-headed man. Tho 
impassioned are far more liable to weakness, than the fickle ; but, 
2 


14 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


instead of his mode of thinking securing the confidence of Nevil, 
he would fain have assured the Count that he was the happiest 
of human beings, to escape the infliction of his attempts at comfort. 
Nevertheless, d’Erfeuil became strongly attached to Lord Nevil. 
His resignation and simplicity, his modesty and pride, created 
respect irresistibly. The Count was perplexed by Oswald’s ex- 
ternal composure, and taxed his memory for all the grave maxims, 
which in childhood he had heard from his old relations, in order 
to try their effect upon his friend; and, astonished at failing to 
vanquish his apparent coldness, he asked himself, “Am I not 
good-natured, frank, brave, and popular in society ? What do I 
want, then, to make an impression on this man ? May there not 
be some misunderstanding between us, arising, perhaps, from his 
not sufficiently understanding French V* 


CHAPTER IY. 

An unforeseen circumstance much increased the sensations of 
deference which d’Erfeuil felt towards his travelling companion. 
Lord Nevil’s state of health obliged him to stop .gome days at 
Ancona. Mount and main conspired to beautify its site; and 
the crowd of Greeks, orientally seated at work before the shops, 
the varied costumes of the Levant, to be met with in the streets, 
give the town an original and interesting air. Civilization tends 
to render all men alike, in appearance if not in reality ; yet fancy 
may find pleasure in characteristic national distinctions. 

Men only resemble each other when sophisticated by sordid or 
fashionable life; whatever is natural admits of variety. There is 
a slight gratification, at least for the eyes, in that diversity of 
dress, which seems to promise us experience in equally novel 
ways of feeling and of judgement. The Greek, Catholic, and 
Jewish forms of worship exist peaceably together in Ancona. 
Their ceremonies are strongly contrasted; but the same sigh of 
distress, the same petition for support, ascends to Heaven from alh| 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


15 


The Catholic church stands on a height that overlooks the 
main, the lash of whose tides frequently blends with the chant of 
the priests. Within, the edifice is loaded by ornaments of indif- 
ferent taste; but, pausing beneath the portico, the soul delights 
to recall its purest of emotions — religion — while gazing at that 
superb spectacle, the sea, on which man never left his trace. He 
may plough the earth, and cut his way through mountains, or 
contract rivers into canals, for the transport of his merchandise ; 
but if his fleets for a moment furrow the ocean, its waves as 
instantly efface this slight mark of servitude, and it again appears 
such as it was on the first day of its creation.* * * * ***** 

Lord Nevil had decided to start for Rome on the morrow, when 
he heard, during the night, a terrific cry from the streets, and 
hastening from his hotel to learn the cause, beheld a conflagration 
which, beginning at the port, spread from house to house towards 
the top of the town. The flames were reflected afar off in the 
sea; the wind, increasing their violence, agitated their images on 
the waves, which mirrored in a thousand shapes the blood-red 
features of a lurid fire. The inhabitants, having no engine in 
good repair, (1) hurriedly bore forth what succor they could ; 
above their shouts was heard a clank of chains, as the slaves from 
the galleys toiled to save the city which served them for a prison. 
The various people of the Levant, whom commerce had drawn to 
Ancona, betrayed their dread by the stupor of their looks. The 
merchants, at sight of their blazing stores, lost all presence of 

* Lord Byron translated this paragraph in the fourth canto of Childs 
Harold, but without acknowledging whence the ideas were borrowed: — 

“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore; — upon the wat’ry plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage. * * 

***** 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 

Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.” 

See stanzas 179 and 182. — Tb. 


16 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


mind Trembling for fortune as much as for life, the generality 
of men were scared from that zealous enthusiasm which suggests 
resources in emergency. 

The shouts of sailors have ever something dreary in their sound; 
fear now rendered them still more appalling. The mariners of the 
Adriatic were clad in peculiar red and brown hoods, from which 
peeped their animated Italian faces, under every expression of 
dismay. The natives, lying on the earth, covered their heads 
with their cloaks, as if nothing remained for them to do but to 
exclude the sight of their calamity. Reckless fury and blind 
submission reigned alternately, but no one evinced that coolness 
which redoubles our means and our strength. 

Oswald remembered that there were two English vessels in the 
harbor ; the pumps of both were in perfect order ; he ran to the 
Captain’s house, and put off with him in a boat, to fetch them. 
Those who witnessed this exclaimed to him, “Ah, you foreigners 
do well to leave our unhappy town !” — “We shall soon return,” 
said Oswald. They did not believe him, till he came back, and 
placed one of the pumps in front of the house nearest to the port, 
the other before that which blazed in the centre of the street. 
Count d’Erfeuil exposed his life with gay and careless daring. 
The English sailors and Lord Nevil’s servants came to his aid, for 
thé populace «remained motionless, scarcely understanding what 
these strangers meant to do, and without the slightest faith in 
their success. The bells rung from all sides; the priests formed 
processions; weeping females threw themselves before their 
sculptured saints; but no one thought on the natural powers 
which God has given man for his own defence. Nevertheless, 
when they perceived the fortunate effects of Oswald’s activity — 
the flames extinguished, and their homes preserved — rapture suc- 
ceeded astonishment; they pressed around him, and kissed his 
hand with such ardent eagerness, that he was obliged by feigned 
displeasure to drive them from him, lest they should impede the 
rapid succession of necessary orders for saving the town. Every 
one ranked himself beneath Oswald’s command ; for, in trivial as 
in great events, where danger is, firmness will find its rightful 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 17 

station; and while men strongly fear, they cease to feel jealousy. 
Amid the general tumult, Nevil now distinguished shrieks more 
horrible than aught he had previously heard, as if from the other 
extremity of the town. He inquired their source; and was told 
that they proceeded from the Jews' quarter. The officer of police 
was accustomed to close its gates every evening; the fire gained 
on it, and the occupants could not escape. Oswald shuddered at 
the thought, and bade them instantly open the barriers ; but the 
women, who heard him, flung themselves at his feet, exclaiming, 
“Oh, our good angel! you must be aware that it is certainly 
on their account we have endured this visitation ; it is they who 
bring us ill fortune ; and if you set them free, all the water of the 
ocean will never quench these flames." They entreated him to 
let the Jews be burnt with as much persuasive eloquence as if 
they had been petitioning for an act of mercy. Not that they 
were by nature cruel, but that their superstitious fancies were 
forcibly struck by a great disaster. Oswald with difficulty con- 
tained his indignation at hearing a prayer so revolting. He sent 
four English sailors, with hatchets, to cut down the gate which 
®onfined these helpless men, who instantly spread themselves 
about the town, rushing to their merchandise, through the flames, 
with that greediness of wealth, which impresses us so painfully, 
when it drives men to brave even death ; as if human beings, in 
the present state of society, had nothing to do with the simple 
gift of life. There was now but one house, at the upper part of 
the town, where the fire mocked all efforts to subdue it. So little 
interest had been shown in this abode, that the sailors, believing 
it vacant, had carried their pumps towards the port. Oswald 
himself, stunned by the calls for aid around him, had almost dis- 
regarded it. The conflagration had not been early communicated 
to this place, but it had made great progress there. He demanded 
so earnestly what the dwelling was, that at last a man informed 
him — the hospital for maniacs ! Overwhelmed by these tidings, 
he looked in vain for his assistants, or Count d’Erfeuil ; as vainly 
did he call on the inhabitants; they were employed in taking care 
-tf their property, and deemed it ridiculous to risk their lives for 
2 * 


18 


CORINNE^ OR, ITALY. 


the sake of men who were all incurably mad. a It will be no 
one’s fault if they die, but a blessing to themselves and families,” 
was the general opinion; but while they expressed it, Oswald 
strode rapidly towards the building, and even those who blamed 
involuntarily followed him. On reaching the house, he saw, at 
the only window not surrounded by flame, the unconscious crea- 
tures, looking on, with that heart-rending laughter which proves 
either an ignorance of all life’s sad realities, or such deep-seated 
despair as disarms death’s most frightful aspect . of its power. 
An indefinite chill seized him at this sight. In the severest 
period of his own distress he had felt as if his reason were 
deserting him ; and, since then, never looked on msanity without 
the most painful sympathy. He secured a ladder Which he. found 
near, placed it against the wall, ascended through the flames, and 
entered by its window, the room where the unfortunate lunatics 
were assembled. Their derangement was sufficiently harmless to 
justify their freedom within doors ; only one was chained. For- 
tunately the floor was not consumed, and Oswald’s appearance in 
the midst of these degraded beings had all the effect of enchant- 
ment; at first, they obeyed him without resistance. He bade 
them descend before him, one after the other, by the ladder, which 
might in a few seconds be destroyed. The first of them complied 
in silence, so entirely had Oswald’s looks and tones subdued 
him. Another, heedless of the danger in which the least delay 
must involve Oswald and himself, was inclined to rebel; the 
people, alive to all the horrors of the situation, called on Lord 
Nevil to come down, and leave the senseless wretches to escape 
as they could ; but their deliverer would listen to nothing that 
could defeat his generous enterprise. Of the six patients found 
in the hospital, five were already safe. The only one remaining 
was the youth who had been fettered to the wall. Oswald 
loosened his irons, and bade him take the same course as his 
companions ; but, on feeling himself at liberty, after two years of 
bondage, he sprung about the room with frantic delight, which, 
however, gave place to fury, when Oswald desired him to get out 
of the window. But finding persuasion fruitless, and seeing that 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


19 


the fatal element was fast extending its ravages, he clasped the 
struggling maniac in his arms ; and, while the smoke prevented 
his seeing where to step, leaped from the last bars of the ladder, 
giving the rescued man, who still contended with his benefactor, 
into the hands of persons whom he charged to guard him care- 
fully. 

Oswald, with his locks disordered, and his countenance sweetly, 
yet proudly animated by the perils he had braved, struck the 
gazing crowd with an almost fanatical admiration ; the women, 
particularly, expressed themselves in that fanciful language, the 
universal gift of Italy, which often lends a dignity to the address 
of her humblest children. They cast themselves on their knees 
before him, crying — “ Assuredly, thou art St. Michael, the patron 
of Ancona. Show us thy wings, yet do not fly, save to the top 
of our cathedral, where all may see and pray to thee !” — “ My 
child is ill; oh, cure him !” said one. — a Where,” added another, 
“ is my husband, who has been absent so many years ? tell me !” 
Oswald was longing to escape, when d’Erfeuil, joining him, pressed 
his hand. “ Dear Nevil !” he began, u could you share nothing 
. with your friend ? 'twas cruel to keep all the glory to yourself.” 

— u Help me from this place !” returned Oswald, in a low voice. 
A moment’s darkness favoured their flight, and both hastened in 
search <*f post-horses. Sweet as was the first sense of the good 
he had just effected, with whom could he partake it, now that his 
best friend was no more ? So wretched is the orphan that felicity 
and care alike remind him of his heart’s solitude. What substi- 
tute has life for the affection born with us ? for that mental in- 
tercourse, that kindred sympathy, that friendship, formed by 
Heaven to exist but between parent and child ? We may love 
again ; but the happiness of confiding the whole soul to another 

— that we can never regain. 


20 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY, 


CHAPTER Y. 

Oswald sped to Rome, over the marches of Ancona, and the 
Papal State, without remarking or interesting himself in any- 
thing. Besides its melancholy, his disposition had a natural in- 
dolence, from which it could only be roused by some strong pas- 
sion. His taste was not yet developed; he had lived but in 
England and France ; * in the latter, society is everything ; in 
the former, political interests nearly absorb all others. His mind, 
concentrated in his griefs, could not yet solace itself in the won- 
ders of nature, or the works of art. 

D’Erfeuil, running through every town, with the Guide-Book 
in his hand, had the double pleasure of making away with his 
time, and of assuring himself that there was nothing to see worthy 
the praise of any one who had been in France. This nil admirari 
of his discouraged Oswald, who was also somewhat prepossessed 
against Italy and Italians. He could not yet penetrate the mys- 
tery of the people or their country — a mystery that must be 
solved rather by imagination than by that spirit of judgment 
which an English education particularly matures. 

The Italians are more remarkable for what they have been, and 
might be, than for what they are. The wastes that surround Rome, 
as if the earth, fatigued by glory, disdained to become productive, 
are but uncultivated and neglected lands to the utilitarian. Os- 
wald, accustomed from his childhood to a love of order and public 
prosperity, received, at first, an unfavorable impression in crossing 
such abandoned plains as approaches to the former queen of cities. 
Looking on it with the eye of an enlightened patriot, he censured 
the idle inhabitants and their rulers. 

The Count d’Erfeuil regarded it as a man of the world ; and 
thus the one from reason, and the other from levity, remained 
dead to the effect which the Campagna produces on a mind filled 

* This alludes to a previous tour; in his present one, Oswald has not 
approached France. His longest stay was in Germany. — Tr 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


21 


by a regretful memory of those natural beauties and splendid mis- 
fortunes, which invest this country with an indescribable charm. 
The Count uttered the most comic lamentations over the envi- 
rons of Rome. “What!” said he, “no villas? no equipages? 
nothing to announce the neighborhood of a great city? Good 
God, how dull !” The same pride with which the natives of 
the coast had pointed out the sea, and the Neapolitans showed 
their Vesuvius, now transported the postilions, who exclaimed, 
“ Look ! that is the cupola of St. Peter’s.” — " One might take it 
for the dome of the Invalides !” cried d’Erfeuil. This comparison, 
rather national than just, destroyed the sensation which Oswald 
might have received, in first beholding that magnificent wonder 
of man’s creation. 

They entered Rome, neither on a fair day, nor a lovely night, 
but on a dark and misty evening, which dimmed and confused 
every object before them. They crossed the Tiber without ob- 
serving it; passed through the Porto del Popolo, which led them 
at once to the Corso, the largest street of modern Rome, but that 
which possesses the least originality of feature, as being the one 
which most resembles those of other European towns. 

The streets were crowded; puppet-shows and mountebanks 
formed groups round the base of Antoninus’s pillar. Oswald’s 
attention was caught by these objects, and the name of Rome for- 
gotten. He felt that deep isolation which presses on the heart, 
when we enter a foreign scene, and look on a multitude to whom 
our existence is unknown, and who have not one interest in com- 
mon with us. These reflections, so saddening to all men, are 
doubly so to the English, who are accustomed to live among 
themselves, and find it difficult to blend with the manners of other 
lands. In Rome, that vast caravansary, all is foreign, even the 
Romans, who seem to live there, not like its possessors, but like 
pilgrims who repose among its ruins. (2) Oppressed by laboring 
thoughts, Oswald shut himself in his room, instead of exploring 
the city ; little dreaming that the country he had entered beneath 
such a sense of dejection would soon become the mine of so many 
new ideas and enjoyments 


22 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


BOOK II. 

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 


CHAPTER I. 

Oswald awoke in Rome. The dazzling sun of Italy met his 
first gaze, and his soul was penetrated with sensations of love and 
gratitude for that heaven, which seemed to smile on him in these 
glorious beams. He heard the bells of numerous churches ring- 
ing, discharges of cannon from various distances, as if announcing 
some high solemnity. He inquired the cause, and was informed 
that the most celebrated female was about that morning to be 
crowned at the capitol — Corinne, the poet and improvisatrice, 
one of the loveliest women of Rome. He asked some questions 
respecting this ceremony, hallowed by the names of Petrarch and 
of Tasso ; every reply he received warmly excited his curiosity. 

There can be nothing more hostile to the habits and opinions of 
an Englishman, than any great publicity given to the career of a 
woman. But the enthusiasm with which all imaginative talents 
inspire the Italians, infects, at least for the time, even strangers, 
who forget prejudice itself among people so lively in the exprès 
sion of their sentiments. 

The common populace of Rome discuss their statues, pictures, 
monuments, and antiquities, with much taste ; and literary merit, 
carried to a certain height, becomes with them a national interest. 

On going forth into the public resorts, Oswald found that the 
streets, through which Corinne was to pass, had been adorned 
for her reception. The herd, who generally throng but the path 
of fortune or of power, were almost in a tumult of eagerness to 
look on one whose soul was her only distinction. In the present 
state of the Italians, the glory of the fine arts is all their fate 
allows them ; and they appreciate genius of that order with a 
vivacity which might raise up a host of great men, if applause 


23 


CORINNE OR, ITALY. 

could suffice to produce them — if a hardy life, strong interest, 
and an independent station were not the food required to nourish 
thought. 

Oswald walked the streets of Rome, awaiting the arrival of 
Corinne; he heard her named every instant; every one related 
some new trait, proving that she united all the talents most capti- 
vating to the fancy. One asserted that her voice was the most 
touching in Italy; another, that, in tragic acting, she had no peer; 
a third, that she danced like a nymph, and drew with equal grace 
and invention — all said that no one had ever written or extempo- 
rized verses so sweet, and that, in daily conversation, she displayed 
alternately an ease and an eloquence which fascinated all who heard 
her. They disputed as to which part of Italy had given her birth; 
some earnestly contending that she must be a Roman, or she could 
not speak the language with such purity. Her family name was 
unknown. Her first work, which had appeared five years since, 
bore but that of Corinne. No one could tell where she had lived, 
nor what she had been before that period ; and she was now nearly 
six-and-twenty. Such mystery and publicity, united in the fate 
of a female of whom every one spoke, yet whose real name no one 
knew, appeared to Nevil as among the wonders of the land he 
came to see. He would have judged such a woman very severely 
in England ; but he applied not her social etiquettes to Italy; and 
the crowning of Corinne awoke in his breast the same sensation 
which he would have felt on reading an adventure of Ariosto's. 

A burst of exquisite melody preceded the approach of the tri- 
umphal procession. How thrilling is each event that is heralded 
by music ! A great number of Roman nobles, and not a few fo- 
reigners, came first. “ Behold her retinue of admirers !” said one. 
—“Yes," replied another; “she receives a whole world's homage, 
but accords her preference to none. She is rich, independent; 
it is e^en believed, from her noble air, that she is a lady of high 
birth, who wishes to remain unknown." — “A divinity veiled in 
clouds," concluded a third. Oswald looked on the man who spoke 
thus ; everything betokened him a person of the humblest class ; 
but the natives of the South converse as naturally in poctio 


24 CORINNE; O R, ITALY. 

phrases, as if they imbibed them with the air, or were inspired 
by the sun. 

At last four spotless steeds appeared in the midst of the crowds 
drawing an antiquely-shaped car, besides which walked a maiden 
band in snowy vestments. Wherever Corinne passed, perfumes 
were thrown upon the air; the windows, decked with flowers and 
scarlet hangings, were peopled by gazers, who shouted, “Long 
live Corinne ! Glory to beauty and to genius ! ” 

This emotion was general; but, to partake it, one must lay 
aside English reserve and French raillery ; Nevil could not yield 
to the spirit of the scene, till he beheld Corinne. 

Attired like Domenichino’s Sibyl, an Indian shawl was twined 
among her lustrous black curls, a blue drapery fell over her robe 
of virgin white, and her whole costume was picturesque, without 
sufficiently varying from modern usage to appear tainted by affec- 
tation. Her attitude was noble and modest; it might, indeed, be 
perceived that she was content to be admired ; yet a timid air 
blended with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. 
The expression of her features, her eyes, her smile, created a 
solicitude in her favor, and made Lord Nevil her friend even be- 
fore any more ardent sentiment subdued him. Her arms were 
transcendently beautiful ; her figure tall, and, as we frequently 
see among the Grecian statues, rather robust — energetically cha- 
racteristic of youth and happiness. There was something inspired 
in her air; yet the very manner in which she bowed her thanks 
for the applause she received, betrayed a natural disposition 
sweetly contrasting the pomp of her extraordinary situation. She 
gave you at the same instant the idea of a priestess of Apollo 
advancing towards his temple, and of a woman born to fulfil the 
usual duties of life with perfect simplicity — in truth, her every 
gesture elicited not more wondering conjecture, than it conciliated 
sympathy and affection. The nearer she approached the Capitol, 
so fruitful in classic associations, the more these admiring tributes 
increased ; the raptures of the Romans, the clearness of their sky, 
and, above all, Corinne herself, took electric effect on Oswald. 
He had often, in his own land, seen statesmen drawn in triumph 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


25 


by the people, but this was the first time that he had ever wit- 
nessed the tender of such honors to a woman illustrious only in 
mind. Her car of victory cost no fellow-mortars tear; nor ter- 
ror, nor regret could check his admiration for those fairest gifts of 
nature — creative fancy, sensibility, and reason. These new ideas 
so intensely occupied him, that he noticed none of the long-famed 
spots over which Corinne proceeded. At the foot of the steps 
leading to the capitol, the car stopped, and all her friends rushed 
to offer their hands; she took that of Prince Castel Forte, the 
nobleman most esteemed in Rome for his talents and character. 
Every one approved her choice. She ascended to the capitol, 
whose imposing majesty seemed graciously to welcome the light 
footsteps of woman. The instruments sounded with fresh vigor, 
the cannon shook the air, and the all-conquering Sibyl entered 
the palace prepared for her reception. 

In the centre of the hall stood the senator who was to crown 
Corinne, surrounded by his brothers in office; on one side, all 
the cardinals and most distinguished ladies of Rome; on the 
other, the members of the Academy ; while the opposite extremity 
was filled by some portion of the multitude who had followed 
Corinne. The chair destined for her was placed a step lower 
than that of the senator. Ere seating herself in presence of that 
august assembly, she complied with the custom of bending one 
knee to the earth; the gentle dignity of this action filled Oswald's 
eyes with tears, to his own surprise ; but, in the midst of all this 
success, it seemed as if the looks of Corinne implored the protec- 
tion of a friend, with which no woman, however superior, can 
dispense ; and he thought how delicious it were to be the stay ot 
lier, whose sensitiveness alone could render such a prop necessary. 
As soon as Corinne was seated, the Roman poets recited the odes 
tnd sonnets composed for this occasion ; all praised her to the 
highest; but in styles that described her no more than they 
would have done any other woman of genius. The same mytho- 
logical images and allusions must have been addressed to such 
beings from the days of Sappho to our own. Already Nevil dis- 
3 


26 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


liked this kind of incense for her; he fancied that he could that 
moment have drawn a truer, a more finished portrait; such, 
indeed, as could have belonged to no one but Corinne. 


CHAPTER II. 

Prince Casteel Forte now took up the discourse, in a manner 
which riveted the attention of his audience. He was a man of 
fifty, with a measured address and commanding carriage. The 
assurance which Nevil had received, that he was but the friend 
of Corinne, enabled him to listen with unqualified delight to 
what, without such safeguard, he could not, even thus early, have 
heard, save with a confused sense of jealousy. 

The Prince read some pages of unpretending prose, singu- 
larly fitted, notwithstanding, to display the spirit of Corinne. He 
pointed out the particular merit of her works as partly derived 
from her profound study of foreign literature, teaching her to 
unite the graphic descriptions of the South, with that observant 
knowledge of the human heart which appears the inheritance of 
those whose country offers fewer objects of external beauty. He 
lauded her graceful gayety, that, free from ironical satire, seemed 
to spring but from the freshness of her fancy. He strove to 
speak of her tenderness; but it was easily to be seen that per- 
sonal regret mingled with this theme. He touched on the diffi- 
culty for a woman so endowed to meet, in real life, with any 
object resembling the ideal image clad in the hues of her own 
heart ; then contented himself by depicting the impassioned feel- 
ings which kindled her poetry — her art of seizing on the most 
touching charms of nature, the deepest emotions of the soul. He 
complimented the originality of her expression, which, arising 
from her own peculiar turn of thought, constituted an involuntary 
spell, untarnished by the slightest cloud of mannerism. Ho 
spoke of her eloquence as of a resistless power, which must 
transport most those who possessed the best sense and the truest 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


27 


8usceptibility. “ Corinne,” said he, “ is doubtless more celebrated 
than any other of our countrywomen ; and yet it is only her 
friends who can describe her. The qualities of the soul, if real, 
always require to be guessed ; fame, as well as obscurity, might 
prevent their detection, if some congenial sympathy came not to 
our aid.” He dilated on her talent as an improvisatrice, as distinct 
from everything which had been known by that name in Italy. 
“ It is not only attributable,” he continued, “ to the fertility of her 
mind, but to her deep enthusiasm for all generous sentiments; 
she cannot pronounce a word that recalls them, but that inex- 
haustible source of thought overflows at her lips in strains ever 
pure and harmonious; her poetry is intellectual music, such as 
alone can embody the fleeting and delicate reveries of the heart.” 
He extolled the conversation of Corinne, as one who had tasted 
all its delights. “There,” he said, “is uuited all that is natural, 
fanciful, just, sublime, powerful, and sweet, to vary the mental 
banquet every instant; it is what Petrarch termed — 

Il parlar che nell’ anima si sente’ — 

a language which is felt to the heart's core, and must possess much 
of the vaunted Oriental magic which has been given by the 
ancients to Cleopatra. The scenes I have visited with her, the 
lays we have heard together, the pictures she has shown me, the 
books she has taught me to enjoy, compose my universe. In all 
these is some spark of her life; and were I forced to dwell afar 
from her, I would, at least, surround myself with them, though 
certain to seek in vain for her radiant traces amongst them, when 
once she had departed.” 

“Yes!” he cried, as his glance accidentally fell upon Oswald; 
“look on Corinne, if you may pass your days with her — if that 
twofold existence can be long secured to you; but behold her 
not, if you must be condemned to leave her. Vainly would you 
seek, however long you might survive, the creative spirit which 
multiplied in partaking all your thoughts and feelings; y)u would 
never find it more !” 

Oswald shuddered at these words; his eyes were fixed on 


28 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Corinne, who listened with an agitation self-love cannot produce; 
it belongs only to humility and to gratitude. Castel Forte re- 
sumed the address, which a momentary weakness had suspended. 
He spoke of Corinne as a painter and a musician ; of her de- 
clamation and her dancing. “In all these exertions,” he said, 
“she is still herself — confined to no one mode, nor rule — but 
expressing, in various languages, the enchantments of Art and 
Imagination. I cannot flatter myself on having faithfully repre- 
sented one of whom it is impossible to form an idea till she her- 
self is known ; but her presence is left to Borne, as among the 
chief blessings beneath its brilliant sky. Corinne is the link that 
binds her friends to each other. She is the motive, the interest 
of our lives; we rely on her worth, pride in her genius, and say 
to the sons of other lands, ‘Look on the personation of our own 
fair Italy. She is what we might be, if freed from the ignorance, 
envy, discord, and sloth, to which fate has reduced us/ We 
love to contemplate her, as a rare production of our climate, and 
our fine arts; a relic of the past, a prophetess of the future; and 
when strangers, pitiless of the faults born of our misfortunes, 
insult the country whence have arisen the planets that illumed 
all Europe, still we but say to them, ‘Look upon Corinne/ Yes; 
we will follow in her track, and be such men as she is a woman ; 
if, indeed, men can, like women, make worlds in their own hearts; 
if our moral temperaments, necessarily dependent on social obli- 
gations and exterior circumstances, could, like hers, owe all their 
light to the glorious touch of poesy !” 

The instant the Prince ceased to speak, was followed by an 
unanimous outbreak of admiration, even from the leaders of the 
State, although the discourse had ended by an indirect censure on 
the present situation of Italy; so true it is, that there men prac- 
tise a degree of liberality, which, though it extends not to any 
improvement of their institutions, readily pardons superior minds 
for a mild dissent from existing prejudices. Castel Forte was a 
man of high repute in Borne. He spoke with a sagacity remark- 
able among a people usually wiser in actions than in words. Ho 
had not, in the affairs of life, that ability which often distin* 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


29 


guishes an Italian; but he shrunk not from the fatigue of thinks 
ing, as his happy countrymen were wont to do; trusting to arrive 
at all truths by intuition, even as their soil bears fruit, unaided, 
save by the favor of heaven. 


CHAPTER III. 

Corinne rose, as the Prince finished his oration. She thanked 
him by an inclination of the head, which diffidently betrayed her 
sense of having been praised in a strain after her own heart. It 
was the custom for a poet, crowned at the capitol, to extemporize 
or recite in verse, ere receiving the destined bays. Corinne sent 
for her chosen instrument, the lyre, more antique in form, and 
simpler in sound, than the harp ; while tuning it, she was op- 
pressed by so violent a tremor, that her voice trembled as she 
asked what theme she was to attempt. “The glory and welfare 
of Italy I” cried all near her. “Ah, yes !” she exclaimed, al- 
ready sustained by her own talents ; “ the glory and welfare of 
Italy!” Then, animated by her love of country, she breathed 
forth thoughts to which prose or another language can do but 
imperfect justice. 

4 

CHANT OF CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.* 

Cradle of Letters! Mistress of the World! 

Soil of the Sun! Italia! I salute thee! 

How oft the human race have worn thy yoke, 

The vessels of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky ! 

Olympus for Ausonia once was left, 

And by a god. Of such a land are born 
Dreams of the golden time, for there man looks 
Too happy to suppose him criminal. 

* For the translation of this Ode, the proprietor of the Standard 
Novels is indebted to the pen of Miss L. E. Landon. 

3 * 


30 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

By genius Rome subdued the "world, then reign’d 
A queen by liberty. The Roman mind 
Set its own stamp upon the universe ; 

And, when barbarian hordes whelm’d Italy, 

Then darkness was entire upon the earth. 

Italia reappear’d, and with her rose 
Treasures divine, brought by the wandering Greeks; 
To her were then reveal’d the laws of Heaven. 

Her daring children made discovery 
Of a new hemisphere : Queen still, she held 
Thought’s sceptre; but that laurel’d sceptre made 
Ungrateful subjects. 

Imagination gave her back the world 
Which she had lost. Painters and poets shaped 
Earth and Olympus, and a heaven and hell. 

Her animating fire, by Genius kept, 

Far better guarded than the Pagan god’s, 

Found not in Europe a Prometheus 
To bear it from her. 

And wherefore am I at the capitol? 

Why should my lowly brow receive the crown 
Which Petrarch wore? which yet suspended hangs 
Where Tasso’s funeral cypress mournful waves : 
Why? oh, my countrymen! but that you love 
Glory so well that you repay its search 
Almost like its success. 

Now, if you love that glory which too oft 
Chooses its victims from its vanquishers, 

Those which itself has crown’d ; think, and be proud 
Of days which saw the perish’d Arts reborn. 

Your Dante ! Homer of the Christian age, 

The sacred poet of Faith’s mysteries — 

Hero of thought — whose gloomy genius plunged 
In Styx, and pierced to hell ; and whose deep soul 
Was like the abyss it fathom’d. 

Italia ! as she was in days of power' 

Revived in Dante : such a spirit stirr’.d 
In old republics : bard and warrior too, 

He lit the fir 3 of action ’mid the dead, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


31 


Till e’en his shadows had more vigorous life 
Than real existence ; still were they pursued 
By earthly memories ; passions without aim 
Gnaw’d at their heart, still fever’d by the past; 
Yet less irrevocable seem’d that past, 

Than their eternal future. 

Methinks that Dante, banish’d his own soil, 

Bore to imagined worlds his actual grief, 

Ever his shades inquire the things of life, 

And ask’d the poet of his native land ; 

And from his exile did he paint a hell. 

In his eyes Florence set her stamp on all ; 

The ancient dead seem’d Tuscans like himself: 

Not that his power was bounded, but his strength; 
And his great mind forced all the universe 
Within the circle of its thought. 

A mystic chain of circles and of spheres 
Led him from Hell to Purgatory; thence 
From Purgatory into Paradise : 

Faithful historian of his glorious dream, 

Jle fills with light the regions most obscure ; 

The world created in his triple song 
Is brilliant, and complete, and animate, 

Like a new pkmet seen within the sky. 

All upon earth doth change to poetry 
Beneath his voice : the objects, the ideas, 

The laws, and all the strange phenomena, 

Seem like a new Olympus with new gods — 
Fancy’s mythology — which disappears 
Like Pagan creeds at sight of Paradise, 

That sea of light, radiant with shining stars, 

And love, and virtue. 

The magic words of our most noble bard 
Are like the prism of the universe ; — 

Her marvels there reflect themselves, divide, 

And recreate her wonders ; sounds paint hues. 

And colors melt in harmony. The rhyme — 
Sounding or strange, and rapid or prolong’d — 


82 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Thai charm of genius, triumph of high at'j 
Poetry’s divination, which reveals 
All nature’s secrets, such as influence 
The heart of man. 

From this great work did Dante hope the end 
Of his long exile : and he call'd on Fame 
To be his mediator ; but he died 
Too soon to reap the laurels of his land. 

Thus wastes the transitory life of man 
In adverse fortunes ; and it glory wins, 

If some chance tide, more happy, floats to shore. 
The grave is in the port; and destiny, 

In thousand shapes, heralds the close of life 
By a return of happiness. 

Thus the ill-fated Tasso, whom your praise, 

0 Romans! ’mid his wrings, could yet console — 
The beautiful, the chivalric, the brave, 

Dreaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung — 
With awe and gratitude approached your walls, 

As did his heroes to Jerusalem. 

They named the day to crown him ; but its eve 
Death bade him to his feast, the terrible ! 

The Heaven is jealous of the earth ; and calls 
Its favorites from the stormy waves of time. 

’T was in an age more happy and more free 
Than Tasso’s, that, like Dante, Petrarch sang: 
Brave poet of Italian liberty. 

Elsewhere they know him only by his love : 

Here memories more severe, aye, consecrate 
His sacred name ; his country could inspire 
E’en more than Laura. 

His vigils gave antiquity new life ; 

Imagination was no obstacle 

To his deep studies ; that creative power 

Conquer’d the future, and reveal’d the past. 

He proved how knowledge lends invention aid; 
And more original his genius seem’d, 

When, like the powers eternal, it could be 
Present in every time. 


Corinne; or, it al y. 83 

Our laughing climate, and our air serene 
Inspired our Ariosto: after war, 

Our many long and cruel wars, he came 
Like to a rainbow ; varied and as bright 
As that glad messenger of summer hours. 

His light, sweet gayety is like nature’s smile, 

And not the irony of man. 

Raffaële, Galileo, Angelo, 

Pergolese ; you ! intrepid voyagers, 

Greedy of other lands, though Nature never 
Could yield ye one more lovely than your own ; 

Come ye , and to our poets join your fame: 

Artists, and sages, and philosophers, 

Ye are, like them, the children of a sun 
Which kindles valor, concentrates the mind, 

Develops fancy, each one in its turn ; 

Which lulls content, and seems to promise all, 

Or make us all forget. 

Know ye the land where orange-trees are blooming 
Where all heaven’s rays are fertile, and with love ? 

Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury! 

In air already so fragrant and so soft? 

Now, answer, strangers ; Nature, in your home, 

Is she as generous or as beautiful ? 

Not only with vine-leaves and ears of corn 
Is nature dress’d, but ’neath the feet of man, 

As at a sovereign’s feet, she scatters flowers 
And sweet and useless plants, which, born to please, 

Disdain to serve. 

Here pleasures delicate, by nature nurst — 

Felt by a people who deserve to feel ; — 

The simplest food suffices for their wants. 

What though her fountains flow with purple wine 
From the abundant soil, they drink them not ! 

They love their sky, their arts, their monuments ; 

Their land, the ancient, and yet bright with spring; 

Brilliant society; refined delight: 

Coarse pleasures, fitting to a savage race, 

Suit not with them. 


34 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Here the sensation blends -with the idea ; 

Life ever draws from the same fountain-head ; 

The soul, like air, expands o’er earth and heaven. 

Here Genius feels at ease ; its reveries 
Are here so gentle; its unrest is soothed: 

For one lost aim a thousand dreams are given, 

And nature cherishes, if man oppress ; 

A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound : 

E’en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart, 

Is comfort here : by admiration fill’d, 

For God, all goodness ; taught to penetrate 
The secret of his love; not thy brief days — 

Mysterious heralds of eternity — 

But in the fertile and majestic breast 
Of the immortal universe ! 

Corinne was interrupted for some moments by impetuous ap- 
plause. Oswald alone joined not in the noisy transport around 
him. He had bowed his head on his hand, when Corinne said— 

“ E'en for the sorrows of the stricken heart 
Is comfort here 

he had not raised it since. Corinne observed him ; and from his 
features, the color of his hair, his dress, his height — indeed, from 
his whole appearance — recognised him as English. She was struck 
by the mourning which he wore, and his melancholy countenance. 
His gaze, then fixed upon herself, seemed gently to reproach her : 
she entered into his thoughts, and felt a wish to sympathize with 
him, by speaking of happiness with less reliance, and consecrating 
some few verses to Death in the midst of a festival. With this 
intention, she again took up her lyre ; a few prolonged and touch- 
ing tones silenced the assemblage, while thus she continued : — 

Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky 
May not efface ; but where will grief convey 
Noble and soft impressions to the soul, 

As it does here ? 

Elsewhere the living cannot find them space 
For all their hurrying paths, and ardent hopes ; 

And deserts, ruins, vacant palaces, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Leave a vast vacancy to shadows ; — Rome, 

Is she not now the country of the tomb ? 

The Coliseum, and the obelisks — 

The wonders brought from Egypt and from Greece — 
From the extremity of time, here met, 

From Romulus to Leo — all are here, 

Greatness attracting greatness, that one place 
Might garner all that man could screen from time; 
All consecrate to funeral monuments. 

Our idle life is scarcely here perceived: 

The silence of the living to the dead 
Is homage : they endure, but we decay. 

The dead alone are honor’d, and alone 
Recorded still ; — our destinies obscure 
Contrast the glories of our ancestors ; 

Our present life leaves but the past entire, 

And deep the quiet around memory: 

Our trophies are the work of those no more: 

Genius itself ranks ’mid th’ illustrious dead. 

It is Rome’s secret charm to reconcile 
Imagination with our long last sleep. 

AVe are resign’d ourselves, and suffer less 
For those we love. The people of the South 
Paint closing life in hues less terrible 
Than do the gloomy nations of the North: 

The sun, like glory, even warms the grave. 

The chill, the solitude of sepulchres 
’Neath our fair sky, beside our funeral urns 
So numerous, less haunt the frighted soul. 

AVe deem they wait for us, yon shadowy crowd: 

And from our silent city’s loneliness 
Down to the subterranean one below 
It is a gentle passage. 

The edge of grief is blunted thus, and turn'd 
Not by a harden’d heai’t, a wither’d soul, 

But by a yet more perfect harmony — 

An air more fragrant — blending with our l$e. 

AVe yield ourselves to Nature with less fear — 

Nature whose great Creator said of old — 


35 


86 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


“ Ihe lilies of the vale, lo ! they toil not, 

And neither do they spin : 

Yet the great Solomon, in all his glory, 

Was not arrayed like one of these.” 

Oswald was so enchanted by these stanzas, that he testified his 
transport with a vehemence unequalled by the Romans them- 
selves ; in sooth, it was to him, rather than to her countrymen, 
that the second improvisation of Corinne had been addressed. 
The generality of Italians read poetry with a kind of monotonous 
chant, that destroys all effect. (3) In vain the words vary, the 
impression is ever the same; because the accent is unchanged; 
but Corinne recited with a mobility of tone which increased the 
charm of its sustained harmony. It was like listening to different 
airs, all played on the same celestial organ. 

A language so stately and sonorous, breathed by so gentle and 
affecting a voice, awakened a very novel sensation in the mind of 
Oswald. The natural beauties of /the English tongue are all 
melancholy; tinted by clouds, and tuned by lashing waves ; but 
Italian, among sounds, may be compared to scarlet among colors; 
its words ring like clarions of victory, and glow with all the bliss 
a delicious clime can shower on human hearts. When, therefore, 
Italian is spoken by a faltering tongue, its splendor melts, its con- 
centrated force causes an agitation resistless as unforeseen. The 
intents of nature seem defeated, her bounties useless or repulsed ; 
and the expression of sorrow in the midst of enjoyment, surprises, 
touches us more deeply, than would despair itself, if sung in those 
northern languages, which it seems to have inspired. 


CHAPTER IY. 

The senator took the crown of bays and myrtle he was to place 
on the brow of Corinne. She removed the shawl which had bound 
the ebon curls thatYiow fell about her shoulders, and advanced with 
an air of pleased thankfulness, which she strove not to dissemble 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


37 


Again she knelt; but not in trepidation, as at first. She had just 
spoken, had filled her soul with godlike images ; enthusiasm had sur- 
mounted timidity ; she was no longer the shrinking maid, but the in- 
spired vestal who exultingly devoted herself to the worship of Genius. 

When the chaplet was set upon her head, the musicians sent 
forth one of those triumphant airs which so powerfully exalt the 
soul. The clash of cymbals, and the flourish of trumpets, over- 
whelmed Corinne afresh; her eyes filled, she sunk on a seat, and 
covered her face. Oswald rushed from the crowd, and made a 
few steps towards her, but an uncontrollable embarrassment kept 
him silent. Corinne, taking care that he should not detect her, 
looked on him for some time ; and when Prince Castel Forte took 
her han-d to lead her from the capitol, she yielded in abstraction, 
frequently turning, on various pretexts, to gaze again on Oswald. 
He followed her; and as she descended the steps, one of these 
gestures displaced her crown, which Oswald hastily raised, and 
presenting it, said in Italian a few words, implying that humble 
mortals lay at the feet of their deities the crowns they dare not 
place upon their brows.(4) What was his astonishment when 
Corinne thanked him in English, with that insular accent which 
can scarce ever be acquired on the Continent; he remained 
motionless, till, feeling himself almost faint, he leaned against 
one of the basaltic lions that stand at the foot of the staircase. 
Corinne gazed on him again, forcibly struck by his emotion ; but 
they led her to her car, and the whole crowd had disappeared, 
long ere Oswald recovered his presence of mind. Till now, he 
had been enchanted as with a most attractive foreigner; but that 
Eno-lish intonation had brought back all the recollections of his 
country, and, as it were, naturalized in his heart the charms of 
Corinne. Was she English ? Had she not passed many years 
of her life in England ? He could not guess ; but it was impos- 
sible that study alone could have taught her to speak thus. Sho 
must have lived in the same country with himself. 

Who could tell, but that their families might have been related? 
perhaps he had even seen her in his childhood. There is often 
in the heart some innate image of the beings we are to love 
4 


38 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


that lends to our first sight of them almost an air of recognition 
Oswald had believed the Italians, though impassioned, too vacil- 
lating for deep or constant affection. Alieady had the words of 
Corinne given him a totally distinct view of their character. What 
then must he feel should he thus at once revive the remembrance 
of his home, and receive a new-born life, for future enjoyment, 
without being weaned from the past ? In the midst of these reve- 
ries he found himself on the bridge of St. Angelo, which leads to 
the castle of that name, or rather to Adrian’s tomb, which has been 
converted into a fortress. The silence of the scene, the pale waves 
of the Tiber, the moonbeams that lit up the statues, till they ap- 
peared like pallid phantoms, steadfastly watching the current of 
time, by which they could be influenced no more; all these objectf 
recalled him to his habitual train of thought; he laid his hand on 
his breast, and felt the portrait of his father, which he always 
wore ; he drew it forth, and gazed on it, while the cause of the 
felicity he had just enjoyed but too strongly reminded him of all 
that long since had tempted his rebellion against his parent. 

“Ever haunting memory !” he cried, with revived remorse, “too 
wronged and too forgiving friend ! could I have believed myself 
capable of feeling so much pleasure thus soon after thy loss ? but it 
is not thine indulgent spirit which rebukes me ; thou wouldst have 
me happy in spite of my faults; or may I not mistake thy man- 
dates now uttered from above, I, who misunderstood them while 
thou wert yet on earth ?” 


BOOK III. 

CORINNE. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Count d’Erfeuil had been present at the capitol, and called 
the next day on LordNevil, saying, “My dear Oswald, would you 
like me to take you to Corinne’s this evening?” — “How?” inter- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


89 


\ 


rupted Oswald, eagerly, “do you know her?” — “Not I; but so 
famous a person is always gratified by a desire to see her ; and I 
Wrote this morning for her permission to visit her house to-night, 
with you.” — “I could have wished,” replied Oswald, blushing, 
“ that you had not named me thus without my consent.” — “ You 
should rather thank me for having spared you so many tedious 
formalities. Instead of going to an ambassador, who would have 
led you to a cardinal, who might have taken you to a lady, who, 
perhaps, could have introduced you to Corinne, I shall present 
you, you will present me, and we shall both be very well received.” 
— “ I am less confident than you ; and, doubtless, it is but rational 
to conclude that so hasty a request must have displeased her.” — 
“ Not at all, I assure you, she is too sensible a girl, as her polite 
reply may prove.” — “ Has she then answered you ? What had 
you said, my dear Count?” — “Ah! 1 my dear Count/ is it?” 
laughed d’Erfeuil, “ you melt apace, now you know that she has 
answered me ; but I like you too well not to forgive all that. I 
humbly confess, then, that my note spoke more of myself than 
of you, and that hers gives your lordship’s name precedence ; but 
then, you know, I’m never jealous of my friends.” — “Nay,” re- 
turned Nevil, “ it is not in vanity to expect that either of us can 
render ourselves agreeable to her. All I seek is sometimes to 
enjov the society of so wondrous a being. This evening, then, 
since you have so arranged it.” — “ You will go with me ?” — • 
“ Why, yes,” rejoined Nevil, in visible confusion. — “ Why, then, 
all this regret at what I’ve done? though ’tis but just to leave 
you the honour of being more reserved than I, always provided 
that you lose nothing by it. She ’s really a delightful person, 
this Corinne ! with a vast deal of ease and cleverness. I could 
not very well make out what she talked of, but, I ’ll wager you, 
she speaks French ; we can decide that to-night. She leads a 
strange life. Young, free, and wealthy, yet no one knows whe- 
ther she has any lovers or no. It seems plain that at present she 
favors no one ; that she should never have met, in this country, 
with a man worthy of her, don’t astonish me in the least.” 
D’Erfeuil ran on some time, in this kind of chat, without any 
interruption from Oswald. He said nothing which could exactly 


40 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


be called coarse, yet his light matter-of-fact manner, on a topic so 
interesting, clashed with the delicacy of his companion. There 
is a refinement which. even wit and knowledge of the world cannot 
teach their votaries, who often wound the heart, without violating 
perfect politeness. Lord Nevil was much disturbed during the 
day in thinking over the visit of the evening; but he did his 
utmost to banish his disquieting presentiments, and strove to 
persuade himself that he might indulge a pleasing idea, without 
permitting it to decide his fate. False hope ! the heart can 
receive no bliss from that which it knows must prove evanescent. 
Accompanied by the Count, he arrived at the house of Corinne, 
which was situated a little beyond the castle of St. Angelo, com- 
manding a view of the Tiber. Its interior was ornamented with 
the most perfect elegance. The hall embellished by casts of the 
Niobe, Laocoon, Venus de Medicis, and dying Gladiator; while 
in the sitting-room usually occupied by Corinne, he found but 
books, musical instruments, and simple furniture, arranged for 
the easy conversation of a domestic circle. Corinne was not there 
when he entered; and, while waiting for her, he anxiously ex- 
plored the apartment, remarking in its every detail a happy com- 
bination of the best French, Italian, and English attributes; a 
taste for society, a love of letters, and a zeal for the fine arts. 
Coriune at last appeared ; though ever picturesque, she was attired 
without the least research. She wore some antique cameos in 
her hair, and round her throat a band of coral. Natural and 
familiar as she was among her friends, they still recognised the 
divinity of the capitol. She bowed first to Count d’Erfeuil, 
though looking at his friend; then, as if repenting this insin- 
cerity, advanced towards Oswald, and twice repeated “Lord 
Nevil !” as if that name was associated in her mind with some 
affecting reminiscence. At last she said a few words in Italian 
on his obliging restoration of her crown. Oswald endeavored to 
express his admiration, and gently complained of her no longer 
addressing him in English. “Am I a greater stranger than I 
was yesterday?” he said. — “Certainly not,” she replied; “but 
when one has been accustomed for many years of one’s life to speak 
two or three different languages, one chooses that which will best 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


41 


express what one desires to say.” — “ Surely,” he cried, “English 
is your native tongue — that which you speak to your friends.” — 
I am an Italian,” interrupted Corinne. “ Forgive me, my Lord ! 
but I think I perceive in you the national importance which so 
often characterizes your countrymen. Here we are more lowly, 
neither self-complacent, like the French, nor proud of ourselves, 
like the English. A little indulgence suffices us from strangers ; 
and we have the great fault of wanting, as individuals, that 
dignity which we are not allowed as a people; but when you know 
us, } t ou may find some traces of our ancient greatness, such as, 
though few and half effaced, might be restored by happier times. 
I shall now and then speak to you in English, but Italian is more 
dear to me. I have suffered much,” she added, sighing, “ that I 
might live in Italy.” D’Erfeuil here gallantly upbraided her fo 
conversing in languges of which he was entirely ignorant. “ In 
mercy, fair Corinne,” he said, “ speak French ; you are truly 
worthy to do so.” She smiled at this compliment, and granted 
its request, with ease, with purity, but with an English accent. 
Nevil and the Count were equally astonished ; but the latter, who 
believed that he might say what he pleased, provided he did so 
with a grace, imagining that impoliteness dwelt not in matter but 
in manner, put the direct question to Corinne, on the reason of 
this singularity. She seemed at first somewhat uneasy, beneath 
this sudden interrogation ; then recovering herself, said, “ It 
seems, monsieur, that I must have learned French of an English 
person.” He renewed his attack with earnest gayety. Corinne 
became more confused, and at last said, gravely, “During the 
four years that I lived in Rome, monsieur, none even of the 
friends most interested in me have ever inquired into my fate ; 
they understood, from the first, that it was painful for me to speak 
of it.” This check silenced the Count; but Corinne feared that 
she had hurt him ; and, as he seemed so intimate with Lord Nevil, 
she dreaded still more, without confessing it to herself, that he 
might speak unfavorably of her to his companion, and therefore 
took sufficient pains in atoning to him. The Prince Castel Forte 
arrived, with many of their mutual acquaintance, men of 
4* 


now 


42 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


lively and amiable minds, of kind and courteous manners, so easily 
animated by the conversation of others, so capable of appreciating 
all that deserved approval, that they made the best listeners pos- 
sible. The Italians are usually too indolent to display in society, 
or often in any way, the wit they really possess. The generality 
of them cultivate not, even in seclusion, the intellectual faculties 
of their natures ; but they revel in the mental delights which find 
them without any trouble of their own. Corinne had all a 
Frenchwoman’s sense of the ridiculous, and evinced it with all the 
fancy of an Italian ; but she mingled in both such sweetness of 
temper that nothing appeared preconcerted or hostile — for, in 
most things, it is coldness which offends ; while vivacity, on the 
contrary, has almost invariably an air of good-nature. Oswald 
found in Corinne a grace which he had never before met. 

A terrible event of his life was associated with recollections of 
a very lovely and gifted Frenchwoman ; but Corinne in no way 
resembled her. Every creature’s best seemed united in the con- 
versation he now partook. Ingeniously and rapidly as she twined 
its flowers, nothing was frivolous, nothing incomplete ; such was 
her depth of feeling, and knowledge of the world, that he felt 
borne away, and lost iu wonder, at qualities so contrasted. He 
asked himself, if it was from an all-embracing sensibility, or from 
a forgetfulness of each mood, as a new one succeeded, that she 
fled, almost in the same instant, “ from grave to gay, from lively 
to severe,” from learning that might have instructed men, to the 
coquetry of a woman who amused herself with making conquests; 
yet, in this very coquetry, there was such perfect nobleness, that 
it exacted as much respect as the most scrupulous reserve. The 
Prince Castel Forte, and all her other guests, paid her the most 
assiduous and delicate attention. The habitual homage with 
which they surrounded her gave the air of a fête to every day of 
her life. She was happy in being beloved, just as one is happy 
to breathe in a gentle clime, to hear harmonious sounds, and 
receive, in fact, none but agreeable impressions. Her lively and 
fluctuating countenance betrayed each emotion of her heart; but 
the deep and serious sentiment of love was not yet painted there 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 43 

Oswald gazed on her in silence; his presence animated and 
inspired her with a wish to please. Nevertheless, she sometimes 
checked herself, in the midst of her most brilliant sallies, aston- 
ished at his external composure, and doubting whether he might 
not secretly blame her, or if his English notions could permit him 
to approve such success in a woman. He was, however, too 
fascinated to remember his former opinions on the obscurity 
which best becomes a female ; but he asked himself, who could 
ever become dear to her? What single object could ever concen- 
trate so many rays, or take captive a spirit gifted with such 
glorious wings ? In truth, he was alike dazzled and distressed : 
nay, though, as she took leave, she politely invited him to visit 
her again, a whole day elapsed without his going to her house, 
restrained by a species of terror at the feeling which excited him. 
Sometimes he compared it with the fatal error of his early youth ; 
but instantly rejected such comparison. Then it was by treache- 
rous arts he had been subdued; and who could doubt the truth, 
the honor of Corinne? Were her spells those of poetry or of 
magic? Was she a Sappho or an Armida? It was impossible 
to decide. Yet it was evident, that not society, but Heaven itself, 
had formed this extraordinary being, whose mind was as inimi- 
table as her character was unfeigned. “ Oh, my father!” he 
sighed, “ had you known Corinne, what would you have thought 
of her ?” 


CHAPTER II. 

The Count d’Erfeuil called on Lord Nevil, as usual, next 
morning; and, censuring him for not having visited Corinne the 
preceding night, said gaily, “You would have been delighted if 
you had. — “And why?” asked his friend. — “Because yesterday 
gave me the most satisfactory assurance that you have extremely 
interested her.” — “Still this levity? Do you not know that I 
neither can nor will endure it ?” — “ What you call levity is rather 
the readiness of my observation : have I the less reason, becausa 


44 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


my reason is active ? You were formed to grace those blest patri- 
archal days when man had five centuries to live ; but I warn you 
that we have retrenched four of them Ut least.” — “ Be it so ! And 
what may you have discovered by these quickly matured observa- 
tions of yours?” — “That Corinne is in love with you. Last 
evening when I went to her house, I was well enough received, 
of course ; but her eyes were fixed on the door, to look whether 
you followed me. She attempted to speak of something else; but, 
as she happens to be a mighty natural young person, she pre- 
sently, in all simplicity, asked why you were not with me? — I 
said because you would not come, and that you were a gloomy, 
eccentric auirnal : I’ll spare you whatever I might have further 
said in your praise. ‘ He is pensive/ remarked Corinne ; doubt- 
less he has lost some one who was dear to him : for whom is he 
mourning?’ — ‘His father, madame, though it is more than a 
year since his death ; and, as the law of nature obliges us to sur- 
vive our relations, I conclude that some more private cause exists 
for his long and settled melancholy.’— Oh/ exclaimed she, ‘I 
am far from thinking that griefs apparently the same act alike on 
all. The father of your friend, and your friend himself, were 
not, perhaps, men of the common order. I am greatly inclined 
to think so.’ Her voice was so sweet, dear Oswald, as she utter- 
ed these words !” — “ And are these all your proofs of her interest 
in me ?” — “ Why truly, with half of them I should make sure of 
being beloved; but since you will have better, you shall. I kept 
the strongest to come last. The Prince Castel Forte related the 
whole of your adventure at Ancona, without knowing that it was 
of you he spoke. He told the story with much Jire, as far as I 
could judge, thanks to the two Italian lessons I have taken ; but 
there are so many French words in all foreign languages, that ono 
understands them, without the fatigue of learning. Besides, Co 
rinne’s face explained what I should not else have comprehended. 
’T was so easy to read the agitation of her heart : she would 
scarcely breathe, for fear of losing a single word ; when she in- 
quired if the name of this Englishman was known, her anxiety 
wa*t such, that I could very well estimate the dread she suffered, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


45 


/est any other name than yours should be pronounced in reply. 
Castel Forte confessed his ignorance; and Corinne, turning eagerly 
to me, cried, ‘Am I not right, monsieur? was it not Lord Nevil?’ 
— ‘ Yes, madame/ said I, and then she melted into tears. She 
had not wept during the history : what was there in the name of 
its hero more affecting than the recital itself 1” — u She wept ?” 
repeated Oswald. u Ah, why was I not there ?” then instantly 
checking himself, he cast down his eyes, and his manly face ex- 
pressed the most delicate timidity. He hurriedly resumed the 
topic, lest d’Erfeuil should impair his sacred joy by one comment. 
“ If the adventure at Ancona be worth the telling, its honor belongs 
to you, also, my dear Count.” — “ They certainly did speak of a 
most engaging Frenchman, who was with you, my Lord,” rejoined 
d’Erfeuil, laughing; “but no one, save myself, paid any atten- 
tion to that parenthesis. The lovely Corinne prefers you, doubt- 
less believing that you would prove more faithful than I — this 
may not be the case — you may even cost her more pains than I 
should have done ; but your very romantic women love trouble, 
therefore you will suit her exactly.” Nevil smarted beneath each 
word ; but what could he say ? D’Erfeuil never argued ; nay, he 
could not even listen with sufficient attention to alter his opinions : 
once uttered, he cared no more about them, and the best plan was 
to forget them, if possible, as quickly as he did himself. 


CHAPTER III. 

That evening Oswald reached the house of Corinne with en- 
tirely new sensations. He fancied that he might be expected. 
How entrancing that first beam of intelligence between one’s self 
and the being we adore ! ere memory contends the heart with 
hope, ere the eloquence of words has sought to depict our feelings. 
There is, in these first hours of love, some indefinite and myste- 
rious charm, more fieetmg, but more heavenly than even happi« 
ness itself. 


46 


CORINNE: OR, ITALY. 


Oswald found Corinne alone; this abashed him much. He 
could have gazed on her in the midst of her friends ; but would 
fain have been in some way convinced of her preference, ere thus 
suddenly engaged in an interview which might chill her manner 
towards him; and, in that expectation, his own address became 
cold from very embarrassment. "Whether she detected this, or 
that similar feelings made her desire to remove his restraint, she 
speedily inquired if be had yet seen any of the antiquities of 
Rome. “ No.” — “ Then, how were you employed yesterday ?” 
she asked, with a smile. “ 1 passed the day at home. Since 1 
came hither, I have seen but you, madame, or remained alone.” 
She wished to speak of his conduct at Ancona, and began : “ I 
learned last night — ” here she paused, and then said, “but I 
will talk of that when our party has joined us.” Lord Nevil had 
a dignity which intimidated Corinne; besides, she feared, in 
alluding to his noble behaviour, that she should betray too much 
emotion, and trusted to feel less before witnesses. Oswald 
was deeply touched by this reserve, and by the frankness with 
which she, unconsciously, disclosed its motive; but the more 
oppressed he became, the less could he explain himself. He 
hastily rose, and went to the window; then remembering that this 
action must be unintelligible to Corinne, he returned to his seat, 
without speaking; and, though she had more confidence than 
himself, his diffidence proved so contagious, that, to cover her ab- 
straction, she ran her fingers over her harp and struck a few un- 
connected chords; these melodious sounds, though they increased 
the emotion of Oswald, lent him a slight degree of firmness. He 
dared to look on her; and who could do so, without being struck 
by the divine inspiration inthroned in her eyes ? Reassured by 
the mildness which veiled their splendor, he might have spoken, 
had not Prince Castel Forte that instant entered the room. It 
was not without a pang that he beheld Nevil iête-à-tête with Co- 
rinne; but he was accustomed to conceal his sensations ; and that 
habit, which an Italian often unites with the most vehement pas- 
sions, in him was rather the result of lassitude and natural gentle- 
ness. Fie had resigned the hope of being the first object of Co* 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


47 


rinne’s regard; he was no longer young. He had just the wit, 
taste, and fancy, which varies, without disturbing one’s existence; 
and felt it so needful for his life to pass every evening with 
Corinne, that, had she married, he would have conjured her hus- 
band to let him continue this routine; on which condition it would 
not have cost him much regret to see her united with another. 
The heart’s disappointments are not, in Italy, aggravated by those 
of vanity. You meet some men jealous enough to stab their rivals, 
others sufficiently modest to accept the second place in the esteem 
of a woman whose company they enjoy; but you seldom find those 
who, rather than appear rejected, deny themselves the pleasure of 
keeping up a blameless intimacy. The dominion of society over 
self-love is scarcely known in the land. The Count d’Erfeuil and 
Corinne’s wonted guests having assembled, the conversation turned 
on the talent for improvisation, which she had so gloriously dis- 
played at the capitol ; and she was asked what she thought of it 
herself. “It is so rare a thing,” said Castel Forte, “to find a 
person at once susceptible of enthusiasm, and capable of analysis ; 
endowed as an artist, yet gifted with so much self-knowledge, that 
we ought to implore her revelation of her own secret.” — “ The 
faculty of extemporizing,” returned Corinne, “ is not more extra- 
ordinary in southern tongues, than senatorial eloquence or lively 
repartee in other languages. I should even say that, unfortunately, 
it is easier for us to breathe impromptu verse than to speak well in 
prose, from which poetry differs so widely, that the first stanza, 
by their mere expressions, remove the poet from the sphere of 
his auditors, and thus command attention. It is not only to the 
sweetness of Italian, but to the emphatic vibration of its syllables, 
that we should attribute the influence of poetry amongst us. Ita- 
lian has a musical charm, which confers delight by the very sound 
of its words, almost independent of ideas, though nearly all those 
words are so graphic, that they paint their own significations on 
the mind ; you feel that but in the midst of the arts, and beneath 
a beauteous sky, could a language so melodious and highly colored, 
have had birth. It is, therefore, easier in Italy than anywhere 
else to mislead by speeches, unaided by depth or novelty of thought 


48 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Poetry, like all the fine arts, captivates the senses as much as the 
mind. Nevertheless, I venture to assert, that I never act the im- 
provisatrice, unless beneath some real feeling, or some image which 
I believe original. I hope that I rely less than others on our be- 
witching tongue ; on which, indeed, one may prelude at random, 
and bestow a vivid pleasure, solely by the charm of rythm and 
of harmony.” — “ You think, then,” said one of her friends, “ that 
this genius for spontaneous verse does injury to our literature ? I 
thought so too, till I heard you, who have entirety reversed my 
decision.” — “ I have said,” returned Corinne, “ that from this 
facility and abundance must result a vast quantity of indifferent 
poems; but I rejoice that such fruitfulness should exist in Italy, 
as I do to see our plains covered with a thousand superfluous pro- 
ductions. I pride in this bounty of Heaven. Above ail, I love 
to find improvisatores among the common people ; it shows that 
imagination of theirs which is hidden in all other circumstances, 
and only develops itself amongst us. It gives a poetic air to the 
humblest ranks of society, and spares us from the disgust we cannot 
help feeling, against what is vulgar in all classes. When our Sici- 
lians, while rowing the traveller in their barks, lend their graceful 
dialect to an endearing welcome, or sing him a kind and long fare- 
well, one might dream that the pure sea-breeze acted on man as 
on an Eolian harp; and that the one, like the other, echoed but 
the voice of nature. Another reason why I set this value on our 
talent for improvisation is, that it appears one which could not 
possibly survive among a community disposed to ridicule. Poets, 
who risk this perilous enterprise, require all the good-humor of a 
country in which men love to amuse themselves, without criticizing 
what amuses them. A single sneer would suffice to banish the pre- 
sence of mind necessary for rapid and uninterrupted composition- 
Your heroes must warm with you, and their plaudits must be your 
inspiration.” — “But, madame,” said Oswald, who, till now, had 
gazed in silence on Corinne, “ to which class of your poems do you 
give the preference — those that are the works of reflection, or such 
as were instantaneously inspired?” — “ My Lord,” replied Corinne, 
with a look of gentle deference, “I will make y*;u my judge; but 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


49 


if you bid me examine my own heart, I should say that improvi- 
sation is, to me, like animated converse. I do not confine myself 
to such or such subjects, but yield to whatever produces that de- 
gree of interest in my hearers which most infects myself; and it 
is to my friends that I owe the greater portion of my talent in this 
line. Sometimes, while they speak on the noble questions that 
involve the moral condition of man — the aim and end of his du- 
ties here — mine impassioned excitement carries me beyond my- 
self; teaches me to find in nature, and mine own heart, such 
daring truths, and forcible expressions, as solitary meditation could 
never have engendered. Mine enthusiasm, then, seems superna- 
tural : a spirit speaks within me far greater than mine own ; it 
often happens that I abandon the measure of verse to explain my 
thoughts in prose. Sometimes I quote the most applicable pas- 
sages from the poets of other lands. Those divine apostrophes are 
mine, while my soul is filled by their import. Sometimes my lyre, 
by a simple national air, may complete the effect which flies from 
the control of words. In truth, I feel myself a poet, less when a 
happy choice of rhymes, of syllables, of figures, may dazzle my 
auditors, than when my spirit soars disdainful of all selfish base- 
ness; when godlike deeds appear most easy to me, 'tis then my 
verse is at its best. I am, indeed, a poet while I admire or hate, 
not by my personal feelings, nor in mine own cause, but for the 
sake of human dignity, and the glory of the world !” Corinne, 
now perceiving how far she had been borne away, blushed, and, 
turning to Lord Nevil, said : “ You see I cannot touch on any of 
the themes that affect me, without that kind of thrill which is the 
source of ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in the recluse, gene- 
rosity in heroes, and disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, 
my Lord ; such a woman little resembles those of your country.” 
— “Who can resemble you ?” replied Oswald; “and who shall 
make laws for a being so peculiar?” 

The Count d’Erfeuil was actually spell-bound; without under- 
standing all she said, her gestures, voice, and manner, charmed 
him. It was the first time that any, save French graces, had 
moved him thus. But, to say truth, the popularity of Corinne 
5 


50 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

aided and sanctioned his judgment; so that he might rave of her 
without relinquishing his convenient habit of being guided by thi 
opinion of others. As they left the house together, he said to 
his friend : “ Confess, now, dear Oswald, that I have some merit 
in not paying my court to so delightful a person.” — “ But,” re- 
plied Nevil, “ they say that she is difficult to please.” — “ They 
say, but I don’t believe it. A single woman, who leads the life 
of an artist, can’t be difficult to please.” Nevil’s feelings were 
wounded by this remark ; but whether d’Erfeuil saw it not, or 
was resolved to follow the bent of his own inclinations, he con- 
tinued, “ Not but, if I could believe in any woman’s virtue, I 
should trust hers above all. She has certainly a thousand times 
more ardor than were required in your country, or even in mine, 
to create doubts of a lady’s cruelty ; yet she is a creature of such 
superior tact and information, that the ordinary rules for ju-dging 
her sex cannot be applied to her. Would you believe it? I find 
her manners imposing; they overawe me in spite of her careless 
affability. I wished yesterday, merely out of gratitude for her 
interest in you, to hazard a few words on my own account; such 
as make what way they can ; if they are listened to, so much the 
better; if not, why that may be luckier still; but Corinne looked 
on me coldly, and I was altogether disconcerted. Is it not absurd 
to feel out of countenance before an Italian, a poet, an — every- 
thing that ought to put a man at his ease ?” — “ Her name is 
unknown,” replied Nevil, “but her behavior assures us that she 
is highly born.” — “Nay, ’tis only the fashion of romance to con- 
ceal one’s nobility; — in real life, people tell everything that can 
do themselves credit, and even a little more than the truth.” — 
“Yes, in some societies, where they think but of the effect pro- 
duced on others; but here, where life is more domestic, here there 
may be secrets, which only he who marries Corinne should seek 
t<3 fathom.” — “Marry Corinne !” replied d’Erfeuil, laughing vehe- 
mently, “such a notion never entered my head. My dear Nevil, 
if you will commit extravagances, let them be such as are not 
irreparable. In marriage, one should consult nothing but conve- 
nience and decorum. You think me frivolous; nevertheless, I’ll 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


51 


bet you that my conduct shall be more rational than your own.” 
— “I don't doubt it,” returned Nevil, without another word; 
for how could he tell the Count that there is often much selfish- 
ness in frivolity ? or that vanity never leads a man towards the 
error of sacrificing himself for another ? Triflers are very capable 
of cleverly directing their own affairs; for, in all that may be 
called the science of policy, in private as in public life, men 
oftener succeed by the absence of certain qualities than by any 
which they possess. 

A deficiency of enthusiasm, opinions, and sensibility, is a nega- 
tive treasure, on which, with but slight abilities, rank and fortune 
may easily be acquired or maintained. The jests of d'Erfeuil had 
pained Lord Nevil much; he condemned them, but still they 
haunted him most importunately. 


BOOK IV . 

ROME. 


CHAPTEK i. 

The next fortnight Oswald devoted exclusively to the society 
of Corinne. He never left his house but to visit her. He saw, 
he sought no more ; and, without speaking of his love, he made 
her sensible of it every hour in the day. She was accustomed to 
the lively and flattering tributes of the Italians; but the lordly 
deportment and apparent coldness of Oswald, through which his 
tenderness of heart so often broke, in spite of himself, exercised 
a far greater power o'er her imagination. He never related a 
generous deed or a tale of misfortune, but his eyes filled, though 
he always strove to hide this weakness. It was long since she 
had felt such respect as that which he awakened. No genius, 
however distinguished, could have astonished her; but elevation 


52 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


of character acted deeply on her mind. Oswald added to this an 
elegance which pervaded the most trivial actions of his life, and 
contrasted strongly with the negligent familiarity of the Roman 
nobles. Although some of his tastes were uncongenial to her 
own, their mutual understanding was wonderful. They read each 
other’s hearts in the lightest alteration of countenance. Habitu- 
ated to the most tempestuous demonstrations of passion, this proud 
retiring attachment, continually proved, though never confessed, 
shed a new interest over her life. She felt as if surrounded by a 
purer, sweeter atmosphere; and every moment brought with it a 
sense of happiness in which she revelled, without seeking to 
define. 

One morning Prince Castel Forte came to her, evidently dis- 
pirited. She asked the cause. “This Scot,” sighed he, “is wean- 
ing your affection from us, and who knows but he may even carry 
you far hence ?” Corinne was mute for some moments, and then 
replied, “I protest to you he has never said he loves me.” — “ You 
know it, nevertheless; he speaks to you by his life, and his very 
silence is but an artful plan to attract your notice. What, indeed, 
can any one say to you that you have not already heard ? What 
kind of praise have you not been offered? But there is some- 
thing veiled and reined in about the character of Lord Nevil, 
which will never permit you to judge it wholly as you do ours. 
You are the most easily known person in the world ; but it is 
just because you voluntarily show yourself as you are, that reserve 
and mystery both please and govern you. The unknown, be it 
what it may, has a greater ascendency over you, than all the pro- 
fessions which could be tendered by man.” Corinne smiled. 
“You think then, dear Prince,” she said, “that my heart is un- 
grateful, and my fancy capricious ? I believe, however, that Lord 
Nevil evinces qualities too remarkable for me to flatter myself as 
their discoverer.” — “I allow,” rejoined Castel Forte, “that he is 
high-minded, intelligent, even sensitive, and melancholy above 
all; but I am much deceived if his pursuits have the least affinity 
with yours. You cannot perceive this, so thoroughly is he 
influenced by your presence ; but your empire would not last were 


53 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

he absent from you. Obstacles would fatigue a mind warped by 
the griefs he has undergone, by discouragements which must have 
impaired the energy of his resolutions; besides, you know what 
slaves are the generality of English to the manners and habits of 
their country.” These words recalled to the mind of Corinne the 
painful events of her early years. She sighed, and spoke not ; 
but in the evening she again beheld her lover, and all that 
remained as the effect of the Prince’s counsel was a desire so to 
enamour Nevil of the varied beauties with which Italy is blest, 
that he would make it his home for life. With this design she 
wrote him the following letter. The free life led at Home excused 
her, and, much as she might be reproached with a too rash degree 
of candor, she well knew how to preserve a modest dignity, even 
in her most independent proceedings. 

“to lord neyil. 

“Dec. 15, 1794. 

“ I know not, my Lord, if you will think me too self-confident, 
or if you can do justice to my motives. I heard you say that you 
had not yet explored Rome, that you knew nothing either of tho 
chef s-d’ œuvres of our fine arts, or the antique ruins that teach us 
history by imagination and sentiment. I conceive the idea of 
daring to propose myself as your guide through the mazes of 
long-gone years. Doubtless Rome can boast of many men whose 
profound erudition might be far more useful; but if I succeed in 
endearing to you an abode towards which I have always felt so 
imperiously drawn, your own studies will complete what my im- 
perfect sketches may begin. 

“ Many foreigners come hither, as they go to London or Paris, 
seeking but the dissipation of a great city ; and if it were not 
treason to confess themselves weary of Rome, I believe the greatest 
part of them would do so. But it is equally true, that here may 
be found a charm of which none could ever sate. Will you par- 
don me, my Lord, for wishing that this charm may be known to 
you ? It is true that you must forget all the political relations 
of the world ; but when they are not linked with our sacred duties, 
5 * 


54 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


they do but freeze the heart. It is necessary also to renounce 
what is elsewhere called the pleasures of society ; but do they not 
too frequently wither up the mind ? One tastes in Rome a life at 
once secluded and enlivened, which liberally matures in our breasts 
whatever Heaven hath planted there. 

“ Once more, my Lord, pardon this love for my country, which 
makes me long to know it beloved by a man like yourself; and 
do not judge with English severity the pledges of good-will that 
an Italian believes it her right to bestow, without losing anything 
in her own eyes or in yours. “ Corinne.” 

4 

In vain would Oswald have concealed from himself his ecstasy 
at receiving this letter; it opened to him glimpses of a future 
all peace and joy, enthusiasm, love and wisdom; — all that is 
most divine in the soul of man seemed blended in the enchanting 
project of exploring Rome with Corinne. Pie considered — he 
hesitated no more ; but instantly started for her house, and, on 
his way, looked up to heaven, basking in its rays, for life was no 
longer a burden. Regret and fear were lost behind the golden 
clouds of hope; his heart so long oppressed with sadness, throbbed 
and bounded with delight ; he knew that such a state could not 
last ; but even his sense of its fleetness lent this fever of felicity 
but a more active force. 

“ You are come !” cried Corinne, as he entered. “Ah, thank 
you !” She offered her hand : he pressed it to his lips, with 
a tenderness unqualified by that afflicting tremor which so 
often mingled with his happiness, and embittered the presence of 
those he loved the most. An intimacy had commenced between 
them since they had last parted, established by the letter of Co- 
rinne ; both were content, and felt towards one another the sweetest 
gratitude. “ This morning, then,” said Corinne, “ I will show 
you the Pantheon and St. Peter’s. I trusted,” she added, smi- 
lingly, “ that you would not refuse to make the tour of Rome with 
me ; so my horses are ready. I expected you — you are here — all 
is well — let us go.” — “Wondrous creature !” exclaimed Oswald. 
“ Who then are you ? Whence do you derive charms so 


con' 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


55 


trasted, that each might well exclude the others ? — feeling gayety, 
depth, wildness, modesty ! Art thou an illusion ? an unearthly 
blessing for those who meet thee ? — Ah ! if I have hut power 
to do you any service, ” she answered, “ believe not that I will ever 
renounce it.” — “Take heed,” replied he, seizing her hand with 
emotion ; “ be careful of what benefit you confer on me. For 
two years an iron grasp has pressed upon my heart. If I feel 
some relief while breathing your sweet air, what will become of 
me when thrown back on mine own fate? What shall I be 
then ?”— -' “ Let us leave that to time and chance,” interrupted Co- 
rinne : “ They will decide whether the impression of an hour shall 
last beyond its day. If our souls commune, ou#mutual affection 
will not be fugitive : be that as it may, let us admire together all 
that can elevate our minds ; we shall thus, at least, secure some 
happy moments.” So saying, she descended. Nevil followed 
her, astonished at her reply : it seemed that she admitted the 
possibility of a momentary liking for him, yet he fancied that he 
perceived a fickleness in her manner, which piqued him even to 
pain ; and Corinne, as if she guessed this, said, when they were 
seated in her carriage, “ I do not think the heart is so consti- 
tuted that it must either feel no love at all, or the most unconquer- 
able passion. There are early symptoms which may vanish before 
self-examination. We flatter, we deceive ourselves ; and the 
very enthusiasm of which we are susceptibfe, if it renders the 
enchantment more rapid, may also bring the reaction 
promptly.” — “You have reflected much upon this sentiment, 
madame,” observed Oswald, with bitterness. Corinne blushed, 
and wa» silent for some moments, then said, with a striking union 
of frankness and dignity, “ I suppose no woman of heart ever 
reached the age of twenty-six without having known the illusions 
of love ; but if never to have been happy, never to have met an 
object worthy of her full affection, is a claim on sympathy, I have 
a right to yours.” The words, the accent of Corinne, somewhat 
dispersed the clouds that gathered over Nevil’s thoughts ; yet he 
said to himself : “ She is a most seducing creature, but — an Italian. 
This is not a shrinking, innocent heart, even to itself unknown 


56 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


such as, I doubt not, beats in the bosom of the English girl to 
whom my father destined me.” 

Lucy Edgarmond was the daughter of his parent’s best friend ; 
but too young, when he left England, for him to marry her, or 
even foresee what she might one day become.* 


CHAPTER II. 

Oswald and Corinne went first to the Pantheon, now called 
Santa Maria of*?he Rotunda. Throughout Italy the Catholic hath 
been the Pagan’s heir; but this is the only antique temple in Rome 
which has been preserved entire ; the only one wherein we may 
behold, unimpaired, the architecture of the ancients, and the pe- 
culiar character of their worship. 

Here they paused to admire the portico and its supporting co- 
lumns. Corinne bade Oswald to observe that this building was 
constructed in such a manner as made it appear much larger than 
it was. “ St. Peter’s,” she said, “ produces an opposite effect : you 
will, at first, think it less vast than it is in reality. The deception, 
so favorable to the Pantheon, proceeds, it is conceived, from the 
great space between the pillars, and from the air playing so freely 
within ; but still more from the absence of ornament, with which 
St. Peter’s is overcharged. Even thus did antique poetry design 
but the massive features of a theme, leaving the reader’s fancy to 
supply the detail : in all affairs we moderns say and do too much. 
This fane was consecrated by Agrippa, the favourite of Augustus, 
to his friend, or rather, his master, who, however, had the humi- 
lity to refuse this dedication ; and Agrippa was reduced to the ne- 
cessity of devoting it to all the gods of Olympus, and of substitut- 
ing their power for that of one earthly idol. On the top of the 

* In the original, Lucile Edgermond ; but as neither of these names are 
English, and the latter capable of a very ignoble pronunciation, I havt 
taken the liberty to alter both. — Tr. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


57 


Pantheon stood a car, in which were placed the statues of Augustus 
and Agrippa. On each side of the portico similar effigies were 
displayed, in other attitudes ; and over the front of the temple is 
still legible : “ Consecrated by Agrippa.” Augustus gave his name 
to the age in which he lived, by rendering it an era in the pro- 
gress of human intellect. From the chef s-d’ oeuvres of his cotem- 
poraries emanated the rays that formed a circling halo round his 
brow. He knew how to honor men of letters in his own day; 
and posterity, therefore, honors him. Let us enter the temple : 
it is said that the light which streams in from above was considered 
the emblem of a divinity superior to the highest divinities. The 
heathens ever loved symbolical images; ouç language, indeed, 
seems to accord better with religion, than with common parlance. 
The rain often falls on the marbles of this court, but the sunshine 
succeeds to efface it. What a serene, yet festal air is here! The 
Pagans deified life, as the Christians sanctify death ; such is the 
distinction between the two faiths; but Catholicism here is far 
less gloomy than in the north, as you will observe when we visit 
St. Peter’s. In the sanctuary of the Pantheon the busts of our 
most celebrated artists decorate the niches once filled by ideal 
gods. Since the empire of the Cæsars, we have scarce ever boasted 
any political independence ; consequently, you will find no states- 
men, no heroes here. Genius constitutes our only fame ; but do 
you not think, my Lord, that a people, who thus revere the talents 
still left amongst them, must deserve a nobler destiny ?” — “I be- 
lieve,” replied Oswald, “ that nations generally deserve their own 
fates, be they what they will.” — “ That is severe ! but, perhaps, by 
living in Italy, your heart may soften towards the fair land which 
nature has adorned like a victim for sacrifice. At least remember, 
that the dearest hope the lovers of glory cherish is that of obtain- 
ing a place here. I have already chosen mine,” she added, point-* 
ing* to a niche still vacant. “ Oswald, who knows but you may 
one day return to this spot, when my bust — ” . “ Hold !” inter- 

rupted he; “can you, resplendent in youth and beauty, talk thus 
to one whom misfortune even now is bending towards the grave ?” 
--“Ah !”exclaimed Corinne, “ the storm may in a moment dash 


58 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY 


down flowers that yet shall raise their heads again. Oswald, dear 
Oswald ! why are you not happy ?” — “ Never ask me,” he replied ; 
“ you have your secrets, and I mine : let us respect our mutual 
silence. You know not what I should suffer, if forced to relate 
my distresses.” Corinne said no more; but her steps, as she left 
the temple, became slow, and her looks more pensive. 

She paused beneath the portico. “ There,” she said, “ stood a 
porphyry urn of great beauty, now removed to St. John Lateran ; 
it contained the ashes of Agrippa, which were deposited at the foot of 
the statue he had erected to himself. The ancients lavished such 
art on sweetening the idea of destruction, that they succeeded in 
banishing all its most dreary and alarming traits. There was such 
magnificence in their tombs, that the contrast between the nothing- 
ness of death and the splendors of life was less felt. It is certain, 
too, that the hope of another world was far less vivid amongst them 
than it is with Christians. They were obliged -to contest with 
death, the principal which we fearlessly confide to the ]>osom of 
our eternal Father.” 

Oswald sighed, and spoke not; melancholy ideas have many 
charms, when we are not deeply miserable ; but while grief, in 
all its cruelty, reigns over the breast, we cannot hear, without a 
shudder, words which, of old, excited but reveries not more sad 
than soothing. 


CHAPTER III. 

In going to St. Peter’s, they crossed the bridge of St. Angelo 
on foot. “ It was here,” said Oswald, u that, on my way from the 
* Capitol, I, for the first time, mused long on Corinne.” — u I do not 
flatter myself,” she rejoined, “ that I owe a friend to my corona- 
tion ; yet, in toiling for celebrity, I have ever wished that it might 
make me beloved ; were it not useless, at least to a woman, with- 
out such expectation ?” — “ Let us stay here awhile,” said Oswald. 
u Can bygone centuries afford me one remembrance equal to that 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


59 


of the day on which I beheld you first ?” — “I may err ,” answered 
Corinne, “but I think persons become most endeared to each other 
while participating in the admiration of works which speak to the 
soul by their true grandeur. Those of Rome are neither cold nor 
mute ; conceived as they were by genius, and hallowed by me- 
morable events. Nay, perhaps, Oswald, one could not better learn 
to love a man like yourself than by enjoying with him the noble 
beauties of the universe.” — “But I,” returned Oswald, “while 
gazing listening beside you, need the presence of no other won- 
der.” Corinne thanked him by a gracious smile. Pausing be- 
fore the castle of St. Angelo, she pursued : “ This is one of the 
most original exteriors among all our edifices : the tomb of Adri- 
an, fortified by the G oths, bearing a double character from its suc- 
cessive uses. Built for the dead, an impenetrable circle inclosed 
it ; yet the living have added more hostile defences, which con- 
trast strongly with the silent and noble inutility of a funeral mo- 
nument. You see, at the top, the bronze figure of an angel with 
a naked sword ; (5) within are prisons, famed for ingenious tor- 
ture. All the epochs of Roman history, from the days of Adrian 
to our own, are associated with this site. Belisarius defended it 
against the Goths; and, with a barbarism scarce inferior to their 
own, hurled on them the beauteous statues that adorned the inte- 
rior. Crescentius, Arnault de Brescia, and Nicolas Rienzi, (6) 
those friends of Roman liberty, who so oft mistook her memories 
for her hopes, long defied their foes from this imperial tomb. I 
love each stone connected with so many glorious feats. I applaud 
the master of the world’s luxurious taste — a magnificent tomb. 
There is something great in the man who, while possessing all 
the pomps and pleasures of the world, fears not to employ his mind 
so long in preparations for his death. Moral ideas and disinter- 
ested sentiments must fill the soul that, in any way, outsteps the 
boundaries of life. Thus far ought the pillars in front of St. Peter’s 
to extend; such was the superb plan of Michael Angelo, which 
he trusted his survivors would complete; but the men of our days 
think not of posterity. When once enthusiasm has been turned into 
ridicule, all is defeated, except wealth and power.” — “ It is for 


60 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


you to regenerate it,” cried Nevil. “ Who ever experienced such 
happiness as I now taste? Rome shown me by you ! interpreted 
by imagination and genius ! What a world, when animated by 
sentiment, without which the world itself were but a desert! (7) 
Ah, Corinne ! what is to follow these the sweetest days that my 
fate and heart e'er granted me?" — “ All sincere affections come 
direct from Heaven," she answered, meekly. “Why, Oswald, 
should it not protect what it inspires ? It is for Heaven to dispose 
of us both." 

At last they beheld St. Peter’s; the greatest edifice ever erected 
by man; even the Egyptian Pyramids are its inferiors in height. 
“Perhaps," said Corinne, “I ought to have shown you the 
grandest of our temples last; but that is not my system. It 
appears to me that, to perfect a sense of the fine arts, one should 
begin by contemplating the objects which awaken the deepest and 
most lively admiration. This, once felt, reveals a new sphere of 
thought, and renders us capable of loving and judging whatever 
may, even in an humbler quality, revive the first impression we 
received. All cautious and mystified attempts at producing a 
strong effect are against my taste. We do not arrive at the sub- 
lime by degrees, for infinite distances separate it even from the 
beautiful." 

Oswald felt the most extraordinary sensations when standing 
in front of St. Peter’s. It was the first time the effort of man 
had affected him like a marvel of nature. It is the only work of 
art on the face of the globe that possesses the same species of majes- 
ty which characterizes those of creation. Corinne enjoyed his as- 
tonishment. “ I have selected," she said, “ a day when the sun is 
in all his splendor ; still reserving for you a yet more holy rapture, 
that of beholding St. Peter’s by moonlight; but I wished you firsf 
to be present at this most brilliant spectacle — the genius of man 
bedecked in the magnificence of nature." 

The square of St. Peter’s is surrounded by pillars, which appear 
light from a distance, but massive as you draw nearer; the sloping 
ascent towards the porch adds to the effect produced. An obelisk, 
of eighty feet in height, which looks scarce raised above the earth, 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 61 

in presence of the cupola, stands in the centre. The mere form 
of an obelisk is pleasing to the fancy ; it loses itself in air, as if 
guiding the thoughts of man towards heaven. This was brought 
from Egypt to adorn the baths of Caligula, and afterwards re- 
moved by Sextus V. to the foot of St. Peter’s, beside which this 
contemporary of many ages creates not one sentiment of awe. 
Man feels himself so perishable that lie bows before the presence 
of immutability. At some distance, on each side of the obelisk, 
are two fountains, whose waters, perpetually gushing upwards, 
fall again in abundant cascades. Their murmurs, such as we are 
wont to hear in wild and rural scenes, lend a strange charm to 
this spot, yet one that harmonizes with the stilling influence of 
that august cathedral. Painting and sculpture, whether repre 
senting the human form, or other natural objects, awaken clear 
and intelligible images; but a perfect piece of architecture kindles 
that aimless reverie, which bears the soul we know not whither. 
The ripple of water well accords with this vague deep sense; it is 
uniform, as the edifice is regular. “ Eternal motion and eternal 
rest, seem here united, defying even time, who has no more 
sullied the source of those pure springs than shaken the base of 
that commanding temple. These sheaves of liquid silver dash 
themselves into spray so fine, that on sunny days the light will 
form them into little rainbows, tinted with all the iris hues of the 
prism. “ Stop here a moment/’ said Corinne to Nevil, who was 
already beneath the portico ; “ pause, ere you unveil the sanctuary; 
does not your heart throb as you approach it, as if anticipating 
some solemn event?” She raised the curtain, and held it back 
for Nevil to pass, with such a grace that his first look was on her, 
and for some seconds he could observe nothing else; yet he 
entered the interior, and soon, beneath its immense arches, was 
filled by a piety so profound that love alone no longer sufficed to 
occupy his breast. He walked slowly beside Corinne ; both were 
mute ; there everything commands silence; for the least sound is 
re-echoed so far, that no discourse seems worthy to be thus re- 
peated, in such an almost eternal abode. Even prayer, the accent 
of distress, springing from whatever feeble voice, reverberates 
6 


62 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


deeply through its vasttfess; and when we hear, from far, the 
trembling steps of age on the fair marble, watered by so many 
tears, man becomes imposing from the very infirmities that sub- 
ject his divine spirit to so much of woe ; and we feel that Chris- 
tianity, the creed of suffering, contains the true secret which 
should direct our pilgrimage on earth. Corinne broke on the 
meditations of Oswald, saying, “ You must have remarked that 
the Gothic churches of England and Germany have a far more 
gloomy character than this. Northern Catholicism has in it 
something mystic; ours speaks to the imagination by external 
objects. Michael Angelo, on beholding this dome from the Pan- 
theon, exclaimed, ‘ 1 have built it in the air !' — indeed, St. Peter's 
is as a temple based upon a church ; its interior weds the ancient 
and modern faiths in the mind ; I frequently wander hither to 
regain the composure my spirit sometimes loses. The sight of 
such a building is like a ceaseless, changeless melody, here await- 
ing to console all who seek it; and, among our national claims 
to glory, let me rank the courage, patience, and disinterestedness 
of the chiefs of our church, who have, for so many years, devoted 
such treasures to the completion of an edifice which its founders 
could not expect to enjoy. (8) It is rendering a service to the 
moral public, bestowing on a nation a monument emblematic of 
such noble and generous desires." — “ Yes," replied Oswald, “here 
art is grand, and genius inventive; but how is the real dignity of 
man sustained ? How weak are the generality of Italian govern- 
ments, yet how do they enslave." — “ Other nations," interrupted 
Corinne, “ have borne the yoke, like ourselves-, and without like 
power to conceive a better fate, 

‘ Servi siam si, ma servi ognor frementi.’ 

‘We are slaves, indeed, but forever chafing beneath our bonds/ 
said Alfieri, the boldest of our modern writers. With such sou* 
for the fine arts, may not our character one day equal our genius? 
But look at these statues on the tombs, these mosaics — laborious 
and faithful copies from the chej s-d’ œuvres of our great masters. 
I never examine St. Peter's in detail, because I am grieved to 


63 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

find that its multiplied adornments somewhat impair the beauty 
of the whole. Yet well may the best works of human hands 
seem superfluous here. This is a world of itself ; a refuge from 
both heat and cold ; it hath a season of its own, perennial spring, 
which the atmosphere without can never affect. A subterranean 
church is built beneath ; the popes, and many foreign princes, are 
buried there — Christine, who abdicated her realm; the Stuarts, 
whose dynasty was overthrown. Rome, so long an asylum for 
the exile, is she not herself dethroned? Her aspect consoles 
sovereigns despoiled like her. Yes, cities fall, whole empires 
disappear, and man becomes unworthy of his name. Stand here, 
Nevil ! near the altar, beneath the centre of the dome, you per- 
ceive, through these iron gratings, the church of the dead, which 
lies beneath our feet, and, on raising your eyes, they can scarcely 
pierce to the summit of this arch ; do you not feel as if a huge 
abyss was opening over your head ? Everything which extends 
beyond a certain proportion must cause that limited creature, man, 
uncontrollable dismay. What we know is as inexplicable as the 
unknown ; we have so reconciled ourselves to habitual darkness, 
that any new mystery alarms and confounds us. 

“ The whole church is embellished by antique marbles, who 
know more than we do of vanished centuries. There is the 
statue of Jupiter converted into St. Peter, by the glory which 
has been' set upon its head. The general expression of the place 
perfectly characterizes a mixture of obscure dogmas and sumptu- 
ous ceremonies ; a mine of sad ideas, but such as may be soothingly 
applied ; severe doctrines, capable of mild interpretation : Chris- 
tian theology and Pagan images; in fact, the most admirable union 
of all the majestic splendors which man can give to his worship 
of the Divinity. Tombs decked by the arts can scarcely repre- 
sent death as a formidable enemy : we do not, indeed, like the 
ancients, carve sports and dances on the sarcophagus : but thought 
is diverted from the bier by works that tell of immortality even 
from the altar of death. Thus animated, we feel not that freezing 
silence which constantly watches over a northern sepulchre.” — 
« It is doubtless the purpose with us,” said Oswald, “ to surround 


64 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


death with appropriate gloom : ere we were enlightened by Chris- 
tianity, such was our mythologie bias. Ossian called around the 
tomb funereal chants, such as here you would fain forget. I know 
not if I should wish that your fair sky may so far change my 
mood.” 

“ Yet think not,” said Corinne, “ that we are either fickle or 
frivolous; we have too little vanity: indolence may yield our lives 
some intervals of oblivion, but they can neither sate nor wither 
up the heart; unfortunately we are often scared from this repose 
by passions more terrible than those of habitually active minds.” 
They were now at the door. “ One more glance !” said JN’evil. 
“ See how insignificant is man in the presence of devotion, while 
we shrink even before its material emblem : behold what duration 
man can give to his achievements, while his own date is so brief 
that he soon survives but in his fame. This temple is an image 
of infinitude ; there are no bounds for the sentiments to which it 
gives birth; the hosts of past and future years it suggests for 
speculation. On leaving it we seem quitting a world of heavenly 
thought for one of common interests; exchanging religion and 
eternity for the trivial pursuits of time.” 

Corinne pointed out the bas-reliefs, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, 
on the doors. ^ “We shame not,” she said, “in the pagan trophies 
which art has hallowed. The wonders of genius always awaken 
holy feelings in the soul, and we pay homage to Christianity in 
tribute of all the best works that other faiths have inspired.” 
Oswald smiled at this explanation. “Believe me, my Lord,” 
continued Corinne, “there is much sincerity among people of 
lively fancy. To-morrow, if you like, I will take you to the 
Capitol, and I trust I have many such days in store for you ; 
but — when they are over — must you depart?” She checked 
herself, fearing that she had said too much. “ No, Corinne,” cried 
Oswald, “ I cannot renounce this gleam of bliss, which my guar- 
dian angel seems to shower on me from above.” 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


65 


CHAPTER IV. 

The next day Oswald and Corinne set forth with more confi. 
dence and calmness. They were friends, and began to say we. 
Ah, how affecting is that we, pronounced by love ! What a timid, 
yet ardent confession does it breathe. “We go to the Capitol, 
then?” said Corinne. — “Yes, we will !” replied Oswald, and his 
voice told all in those simple words; so full of gentle tenderness 
was his accent. “ From the top of the Capitol, such as it is now,” 
said Corinne, “we can clearly see the Seven Hills; we will go 
over them all in succession ; there is not one but teems with his- 
torical recollections.” They took what was formerly called the 
sacred or triumphant road. — “ Your car passed this way,” said 
Oswald. “ It did,” answered Corinne : “ such venerable dust 
might have wondered at my presumption ; but since the Roman 
republic, so many a guilty track hath been imprinted on this road, 
that the respect it once demanded is decreased.” She led him 
to the stairs of the present Capitol ; the entrance to the original 
one was by the Forum. “ I wish,” she said, “ that these steps 
were the same which Scipio ascended ; when, repulsing calumny 
by glorious deeds, he went to offer thanks in the temple for the 
victories he had won ; but the new staircase and Capitol were 
built on the ruins of the old, to receive the peaceful magistrate 
who now monopolizes the high sounding title of Roman senator, 
which once extorted reverence from the whole universe. We have 
but names here now. Yet their classic euphony always creates a 
thrill of mingled pleasure and regret. I asked a poor woman, 
whom I met the other day, where she lived. 1 On the Tarpeian 
Rock/ she answered. These words, stripped as they are of all 
that once attached to them, still exert some power over the fancy.” 
They stopped to observe the two basaltic lions at the foot of the 
stairs. (9) They came from Egypt, whose sculptors much more 
faithfully transmitted the forms of animals than that of man. 
The physiognomy of these lions has all the stern tranquillity, the 
strength in repose, which we find described by Dante. 

6 * 


66 CORINNE; OR, ITALÎ. 

“A Guisa di leon — quando si posa.” 

Not far from thence is a mutilated Roman statue, which th« 
modems have placed there, unconscious that they thus display a 
striking symbol of Rome as it is. This figure has neither head 
nor feet ; but the trunk and drapery that remain have still the 
beauty of antiquity. At the top of the stairs are two colossal 
statues, thought to represent Castor and Pollux; then come the 
trophies of Marius; then the two columns which served to mea- 
sure the Roman empire ; lastly the statue of Marcus Aurelius, 
calm and beautiful amid contending memories. Thus the heroic 
age is personated by these colossal shapes, the republic by the 
lions, the civil wars by Marius, and the imperial day by Aurelius. 

To the right and left of the modern Capitol two churches have 
been erected, on the ruins of temples to Jupiter Feretrius and 
Capitolinus. In front of the vestibule is a fountain, over which 
the geniuses of the Tiber and the Nile are represented as presi- 
ding, as does the she-wolf of Romulus. The name of the Tiber 
is never pronounced like that of an inglorious stream; it is a 
proud pleasure for a Roman but to say, “ Come to the Tiber’s 
banks ! Let us cross the Tiber !” In breathing such words he 
seems to invoke the spirit of history, and reanimate the dead. 

Going to the Capitol by the way of the Forum, you find, to 
your right, the Mamertine prisons, constructed by Ancus Martius 
for ordinary criminals ; but excavated by Servius Tullius into far 
more cruel dungeons for state culprits; as if they merit not most 
mercy, who err from a zealous fidelity to what they believe their 
duty. Jugurtha, and the friends of Catiline, perished in these 
sells ; it is even said that St. Peter and St. Paul were confined 
there. On the other side of the Capitol is the Tarpeian Rock, at 
the foot of which now stands the Hospital of Consolation, as if 
the severe spirit of antiquity, and the sweet one of Christianity, 
defying time, here met, as visibly to the eye as to the mind. 
When Oswald and Corinne had gained the top of the Capitol, 
she showed him the Seven Hills, and the city, bounded first by 
Mount Palatinus, then by the walls of Servius Tullius, which in- 
close the hills, and by those of Aurelian, which still surround the 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


67 


greatest part of Rome. Corinne repeated verses of Tibullus and 
Propertius, that glorify the weak commencement of what became 
the mistress of the world. (10) Mount Palatinus once contained 
all Rome; but soon did the imperial palace fill the space that 
had sufficed for a nation. A poet of Nero's day made this 
epigram : — 

“Roma domus fiet. Yeios migrate, Quirites; 

Si non et Veios occupât ista domus.” 

‘Rome will soon be but one house. Go to Yeios, citizen^! if 
you can be sure that this house will not include even Yeios itself.' 
The Seven Hills are far less lofty now than when they deserved 
the title of steep mountains; modern Rome being forty feet 
higher than its predecessor, and the valleys which separated them 
almost filled up by ruins ; but what is still more strange, two heaps 
of shattered vases have formed new hills, Cestario and Testacio. 
Thus, in time, the very refuse of civilization levels the rock with 
the plain, effacing, in the moral as in the material world, all the 
pleasing inequalities of nature. 

Three other hills, Janiculum, Yaticanus, and Mario, not com- 
prised in the famous seven, give so picturesque an air to Rome, 
and afford such magnificent views from her interior, as perhaps 
no other city can command. There is so remarkable a mixture 
of ruins and new buildings, of fair fields and desert wastes, that 
one may contemplate Rome on all sides, and ever find fresh beau- 
ties. 

Oswald could not weary of feasting his gaze from the elevated 
point to which Corinne had led him. The study of history can 
never act on us like the sight of that scene itself. The eye 
reigns all powerfully over the soul. He now believed in the old 
Romans, as if he had lived amongst them. Mental recollections 
are acquired by reading ; those of imagination are born of more 
immediate impressions, such as give life to thought, and seem to 
render us the witnesses of what we learn. Doubtless we are 
annoyed by the modern dwellings which intrude on these wrecks, 
yet a portico beside some humble roof, columns between which 


68 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


the little windows of a church peep out, or a tomb that serves for 
the abode of a rustic family, so blends the grand with the simple, 
and atfords us so many agreeable discoveries, as to keep up con- 
tinual interest. Everything is commonplace and prosaic in the 
generality of European towns; and Rome, more frequently than 
any other, presents the sad aspect of misery and degradation ; but 
all at once some broken column, or half-effaced bas-relief, or a 
few stones, bound together by indestructible cement, will remind 
you that there is in man an eternal power, a divine spark, which 
he ought never to weary of fanning in his own breast, aud relu- 
ming in those of others. The Forum, whose narrow inclosure has 
been the scene of so many wondrous events, is a striking proof of 
man’s moral greatness. When in the latter days of Rome, the 
world was subjected to inglorious rulers, centuries passed from 
which history could scarce extract a single feat. This Forum, tbo 
heart of a circumscribed town, whose natives fought around it 
against the invaders of its territories — this Forum, by the recollec 
tions it retraces, has been the theme of genius in every age 
Eternal honors to the brave and free, who thus vanquish even 
the hearts of posterity ! 

Corinne observed to Nevil that there were but few vestiges left 
of the republic, or of the regal day which preceded it. The aque- 
ducts and subterranean canals are the only luxuries remaining, 
while of aught more useful we have but a few tombs and brick 
temples. Not till after the fall of Sicily did the Romans adopt 
the use of marble ; but it is enough to survey the spots on which 
great actions have been performed ; we experience that indefinite 
emotion to which we may attribute the pious zeal of pilgrims 
Celebrated countries of all kinds, even when despoiled of their 
great men and great works, exert a power over the imagination. 
That which would once have attracted the eye exists no more; but 
the charm of memory still survives. 

The Forum now retains no trace of that famed tribunal whence 
the people were ruled by the force of eloquence. There still 
exist three pillars of a temple to Jupiter Tonans, raised by 
Augustus, because a thunderbolt had fallen near him there, with- 


69 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

)ut injury. There is, too, the triumphal arch erected by the 
Senate to requite the exploits of Septimus Severus. The names 
of his two sons, Caracalla and Geta, were inscribed on its front; 
but as Caracalla assassinated his brother, bis name was erased ; 
some marks of tbe letters are yet visible. Farther off is a tem- 
ple to Faustina, a monument of the weakness of Marcus Aurelius. 
A temple to Venus, which, in the republican era, was consecrated 
to Pallas, and, at a little distance, the relics of another, dedicated 
to the sun and moon, by the emperor Adrian, who was so jealous 
of the Greek architect Apollodorus, that he put him to death 
for censuring its proportion. On the other side are seen the 
remains of buildings devoted to higher and purer aims. The 
columns of one believed to be that of Jupiter Stator, forbidding 
the Romans ever to fly before their enemies — the last pillar of 
the temple to Jupiter Custos, placed, it is said, near the gulf into 
which Curtius threw himself — and some belonging either to the 
Temple of Concord or to that of Victory. Perhaps this resistless 
people confounded the two ideas, believing that they could only 
attain true peace by subduing the universe. At the extremity of 
Mount Palatinus stands an arch celebrating Titus's conquest at 
Jerusalem. It is asserted that no Jews will ever pass beneath 
it; and the little path they take to avoid it is pointed out. We will 
hope, for the credit of the Jews, that this anecdote is true ; such 
enduring recollections well become the long-suffering. Not far 
from hence is the arch of Constantine, embellished by some bas- 
reliefs, taken from the Forum, in the time of Trajan, by the 
Christians, who resolved thus to deck the monument of the Founder 
of Peace. The arts, at this period, were already on the wane, 
and thefts from the past deified new achievements. 

The triumphal gates still seen in Rome perpetuated, as much 
as man could do, the respect paid to glory. There were places 
for musicians at their summits; so that the hero, as he passed, 
might be intoxicated at once by melody and praise, tasting, at 
the same moment, all that can exalt the spirit. 

In front of these arches are the ruins of the Temple to Peaco 
ouilt by Vespasian. It was so adorned by bronze and gold 


70 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

within, that when it was consumed by fire, streams of fused metal 
ran even to the Forum. Finally, the Coliseum, loveliest ruin of 
Rome ! terminates the circle in which all the epochs of history 
seem collected for comparison. Those stones, now bereft of 
marble and of gilding, once formed the arena in which the gladi- 
ators contended with ferocious beasts. Thus were the Romans 
amused and duped, by strong excitements, while their natural 
feelings were denied due power. There were two entrances to 
the Coliseum ; the one devoted to the conquerors, the other that 
through which they carried the dead. “ Sana vivaria , sandapi- 
laria. }1 Strange scorn of humanity! to decide beforehand the 
life or death of man, for mere pastime. Titus, the best of em- 
perors, dedicated the Coliseum to the Roman people ; and its very 
ruins bear so admirable a stamp of genius, that one is tempted to 
deceive one’s self on the nature of true greatness, and grant to 
the triumphs of art the praise which is due but to spectacles that 
tell of generous institutions. Oswald’s enthusiasm equalled not 
that of Corinne, while beholding these four galleries, rising one 
above the other, in proud decay, inspiring at once respect and 
tenderness : he saw but the luxury of rulers, the blood of slaves, 
and was almost prejudiced against the arts, for thus lavishing 
their gifts, indifferent as to the purposes to which they were 
applied. Corinne attempted to combat this mood. “Do not,” 
she said, “ let your principles of justice interfere with a contem- 
plation like this. I have told you that these objects would rather 
remind you of Italian taste and elegance than of Roman virtue ; 
but do you not trace some moral grandeur in the gigantic splen- 
dor that succeeded it? The very degradation of the Roman is 
imposing; while mourning for liberty they strewed the earth with 
wonders; and ideal beauty sought to solace man for the real 
dignity he had lost. Look on these immense baths, open to all 
who wished to taste of oriental voluptuousness; these circles 
wherein elephants once battled with tigers; these aqueducts, 
which could instantaneously convert the areas into lakes, where 
galleys raced in their turn, or crocodiles filled the space just 
occupied by lions. Such was the luxury of the Romans, when 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


71 


luxury was their pride. These obelisks, brought from Egypt, 
torn from the African’s shade to decorate the sepulchres of 
Romans ! Can all this be considered useless, as the pomp of 
Asiatic despots ? No, you behold the genius of Rome, the victor 
of the world, attired by the arts ! There is something superhu- 
man and poetical in this magnificence, which makes one forget 
both its origin and its aim.” 

The eloquence of Corinne excited without convincing Oswald. 
He sought a moral sentiment in all things, and the magic of art 
could never satisfy him without it. Corinne now recollected 
that, in this same arena, the persecuted Christians had fallen vic- 
tims to their constancy; she pointed out the altars erected to their 
ashes, and the path towards the cross which the penitents trod 
beneath the ruins of mundane greatness ; she asked him if the 
dust of martyrs said nothing to his heart. “Yes,” he cried, 
“ deeply do I revere the power of soul and will over distress and 
death : a sacrifice, be it what it may, is more arduous, more com- 
mendable than all the efforts of genius. Exalted imagination 
may work miracles; but it is only when we immolate self to prin- 
ciple that we are truly virtuous. Then alone does a celestial 
power subdue the mortal in our breasts.” These pure and noble 
words disturbed Corinne : she gazed on Nevil, then cast down her 
eyes; and though at the same time he took her hand, and pressed 
it to his heart, she trembled to think that such a man might de- 
vote himself or others to despair, in his adherence to the opinions 
or duties of which he might make choice. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Corinne and Nevil employed two days in wandering over the 
Seven Hills. The Romans formerly held a fête in their honor : 
it is one of Rome’s original beauties to be thus embraced, and 
patriotism naturally loved to celebrate such a peculiarity. Oswald 
and Corinne having already viewed the Capitoline Hill recom 


72 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


menced their course at Mount Palatinus. The palace of the 
Cæsars, called the Golden Palace, once occupied it entirely. 
Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, and Nero, built its four sides : a 
heap of stones, overgrown with shrubs, is all that now remains. 
Nature reclaimed her empire over the works of man; and her fair 
flowers atone for the fall of a palace. In the regal and republican 
eras, grandly as towered their public buildings, private houses 
were extremely small and simple. Cicero, Hortensius, and the 
Grachii, dwelt on this eminence, which hardly sufficed, in the de- 
cline of Rome, for the abode of a single man. In the latter ages 
the nation was but a nameless mass, designated solely by the eras 
of its masters. The laurels of war and that of the arts cultivated 
by peace, which were planted at the gate of Augustus, have both 
disappeared. Some of Livia’s baths are left. You are shown the 
places wherein were set the precious stones, then lavished on 
walls or ceilings, and paintings of which the colors are still fresh : 
their delicacy rendering this yet more surprising. If it be true 
that Livia caused the death of Augustus, it was in one of these 
chambers that the outrage must have been conceived. How often 
may his gaze have been arrested by these pictures, whose tasteful 
garlands still survive ? The master of the world betrayed in his 
nearest affections ! what thought his old age of life and its vain 
pomps? Did he reflect on his glory, or its victims? Hoped he 
or feared a future world ? Might not the last thought, which re- 
veals all to man, stray back to these halls, the scenes of his past 
power? (11) 

Mount Aventinus affords more traces of Rome’s early day than 
any of its sister hills. Exactly facing the palace constructed by 
Tiberius is seen a wreck of the temple to Liberty, built by the 
father of the Grachii; and at the foot of this ascent stood that 
dedicated to the Fortune of Men, by Servius Tullius, to thank 
the gods that, though born a slave, he had become a king. With- 
out the walls of Rome another edifice rose to the Fortune of 
woman, commemorating the influence exerted by Yenturia over 
Coriolanus. 

Opposite to Mount Aventinus is Mount Janiculum, on which 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


73 


Porsenna marshalled his army. It was in front of this hill that 
Horatius Codes cut away the bridge, which led to Rome : its 
foundations still exist. On the banks of the stream was built a 
brick arch, simple as the action it recalled was great. In the 
midst of the Tiber floated an island formed of the wheat sheaves 
gathered from the fields of Tarquin ; the Romans forbearing to 
use them, in the belief that they were charged with evil fate. It 
would be difficult, in our own day, to call down on any treasure a 
curse of sufficient efficacy to scare men from its participation. 

On Mount Aventinus were temples both to patrician and ple- 
beian chastity : at the foot of the hill the Temple of Yesta still 
remains, almost entire, though the inundations of the Tiber have 
often threatened to destroy it. Not far thence are vestiges of a 
prison for debt, where the well-known instance of filial piety is 
said to have occurred; here, too, Cloelia and her companions were 
confined by Porsenna, and swam across the river to rejoin the 
Romans. Mount Aventinus indemnifies the mind for all the 
painful recollections the other hills awake ; and its aspect is as 
beauteous as its memories are sweet. The banks at its foot were 
called the Lovely Strand ( pulchrum littus). Thither the orators 
of Rome walked from the Forum : there Cæsar and Pompey met 
like simple citizens, and sought to conciliate Cicero, whose inde- 
pendent eloquence was of more weight than even the power of their 
armies. Poetry also has embellished this spot : it was there that 
Yirgil placed the cave of Cacus ; and Rome, so great in history, is 
still greater by the heroic fictions with which her fabulous origin 
has been decked. In returning from Mount Aventinus, you see 
the house of Nicolas Rienzi, who vainly strove to restore the spirit 
of antiquity in modern days. 

Mount Ccelius is remarkable for the remains of a pretorian en- 
campment, and that of the foreign troops : on the ruins of the 
latter was found an inscription : “ To the Holy Genius of the 
Foreign Camp.” Holy, indeed, to those whose power it sustained ! 
What is left of these barracks proves that they were built like 
cloisters ; or, rather, that cloisters were formed after their model. 

Esquilinus was called the “ Poet’s Hill;” Mæcenas, Horace, 

7 


74 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Propertius, and Tibullus having all houses there. Near this are 
the ruins of the baths of Trajan and Titus. It is believed that 
Raphael copied his arabesques from the frescoes of the latter: 
here, too, was the Laocoon discovered. The freshness of water is 
so acceptable in fervid climes, that their natives love to collect all 
that can pamper the senses in the chambers where they bathe. 
Thus, by the light of lamps, did the Romans gaze on the chefs - 
d’œuvres of painting and sculpture ; for it appears from the con- 
struction of these buildings that day never entered them : they 
were sheltered from the noontide rays, so piercing here as fully to 
deserve the title of Apollo's darts. Yet the extreme precautions 
taken by the ancients might induce a supposition that the climate 
was more burning then than now. In the baths of Caracalla were 
the Farnese Hercules, the Flora, and the group of Circe. Near 
Ostia, in the baths of Nero, was found the Apollo Belvidere. Can 
we look on that noble figure and conceive Nero destitute of all 
generous sentiments ? 

The baths and circusses are the only places of public amuse- 
ment that have left their vestige. Though the ruins of Marcellus’s 
theatre still exist, Pliny relates that three hundred and sixty 
marble pillars, and three thousand statues, were placed in a the- 
atre incapable of lasting many days. The Romans, however, 
soon built with a solidity that defied the earthquake’s shock : too 
soon they wasted like pains on edifices which they destroyed 
themselves when the fêtes held in them were concluded; thus, in 
every sense sported they with time. They had not the Grecian’s 
mania for dramatic representations : the fine arts then flourished 
at Rome only in the works of Greece ; and Roman grandeur con- 
sisted rather in colossal architecture than in efforts of imagination. 
The gigantic wonders thus produced bore a very dignified stamp, 
no longer of liberty, but that of power still. The districts de- 
voted to the public baths were called provinces, and united all the 
varied establishments to be found in a whole country. The great 
circus so nearly touched the imperial palace, that Nero, from his 
window, could give a signal for the commencement of the games. 
This circus was large enough to contain three hundred thousand 


75 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

people. Almost the whole nation might be amused at the same 
moment; and these immense festivals might be considered as po- 
pular institutions, which assembled for mere pleasure those who 
formerly united for glory. Mounts Quirinalis and Viminalis are 
so near each other that it is not easy to distinguish them apart. 
There stood the houses of Sallust and of Pompey. There, too, in 
the present day, does the pope reside. One cannot take a single 
step in Rome, without contrasting its present and its past. But 
one learns to view the events of one’s own time the more calmly 
fo.r noting the eternal fluctuations that mark the history of man ; 
and one feels ashamed to repine, in the presence, as it were, of so 
many centuries, who have all overthrown the achievements of 
their predecessors. Around, and on the Seven Hills, are seen a 
multitude of spires and obelisks, the columns of Trajan and of 
Antoninus, the tower of Conti, whence, it is said, Nero overlooked 
the conflagration of Rome, and the dome of St. Peter’s lording it 
over the highest. The air seems peopled by these heaven-aspiring 
fanes, as if an aerial city soared majestié above that of the earth. 
In re-entering Rome, Corinne led Oswald beneath the portico of 
the tender and suffering Octavia; they then crossed the road 
along which the infamous Tullia drove over the body of her fa- 
ther : they beheld, in the distance, the temple raised by Agrip- 
pina in honor of Claudius, whom she had caused to be poisoned ; 
finally, they passed the tomb of Augustus, the inclosure around 
which now serves 'as an arena for animal combats. 

“ I have led you rapidly,” said Corinne, “over a few foot- 
prints of ancient history; but you can appreciate the pleasure which 
may be found in researches at once sage and poetic, addressing 
the fancy as well as the reason. There are many distinguished 
men in Rome whose sole occupation is that of discovering new 
links between our ruins and our history.” “ I know no study 
which could interest me more,” replied Nevil, “ if I felt my mind 
sufficiently composed for it. Such erudition is far more animated 
than that we acquire from books : we seem to revive what we un- 
veil ; and the past appears to rise from the dust which concealed 
it.” “ Doubtless,” said Corinne, this passion for antiquity is no 


76 


CORINNE} OR, ITALY. 


idle prejudice. We live in an age when self-interest seems the 
ruling principle of all men; what sympathy, what enthusiasm, 
can ever be its result ? Is it not sweeter to dream over the days 
of self-devotion and heroic sacrifice, which might once have ex- 
isted, nay, of which the earth still bears such honorable traces V 1 


CHAPTER YI. 

Corinne secretly flattered herself that she had captivated the 
heart of Oswald; yet knowing his. severe reserve, dared not fully 
betray the interest he inspired, prompt as she was by nature to 
confess her feelings. Perhaps she even thought that while speak- 
ing on subjects foreign to their love, the very voice might disclose 
their mutual affection ; a silent avowal be expressed in their looks, 
or in that veiled and melancholy language which so deeply pene- 
trates the soul. 

One morning, while she was preparing to continue their re- 
searches, she received from him an almost ceremonious note, 
saying that indisposition would confine him to his house for some 
days. A sad disquietude seized the heart of Corinne : at first, she 
feared that he was dangerously ill; but Count d’Erfeuil, who 
called in the evening, informed her that it was but one of those 
nervous attacks to which Nevil was so subject, and during which 
he would converse with nobody. “ He won’t even see me !” added 
the count. The words displeased Corinne; but she took care 
to hide her anger from its object, as he alone could bring her 
tidings of his friend. She therefore continued to question him, 
trusting that a person so giddy, at least in appearance, would tell 
her all he knew. But whether he wished to hide, beneath an air 
of mystery, the fact that Nevil had confided nothing, or whether 
he believed it more honourable to thwart her wishes than to grant 
them, he met her ardent curiosity by imperturbable silence. She, 
who had always gained such an ascendency over those with whom 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


77 


she spoke, could not understand why her persuasive powers should 
fail with him. She did not know that self-love is the most in- 
flexible quality in the world. Where was then her resource for 
learning what passed in the heart of Oswald? Should she write 
to him? A letter requires such caution; and the loveliest attri- 
bute of her nature was its impulsive sincerity. Three days paœcd, 
and still he came not. She suffered the most cruel agitation. 
“ What have I done,” she thought, u to dissever him from me ? 
I have not committed the error so formidable in England, so par- 
donable in Italy ; I never told him that I loved. Even if he 
guesses it, why should he esteem me the less ?” Oswald avoided 
Corinne merely because he but too strongly felt the power of her 
charms. Although he had not given his word to marry Lucy 
Edgarmond, he knew that such had been his father’s wish, and 
desired to conform with it. Corinne was not known by her real 
name : she had for many years led a life far too independent for 
him to hope that a union with her would have obtained the ap- 
probation of his parent, and he felt that it was not by such a step 
he could expiate his early offences. He purposed to leave Rome, 
and write Corinne an explanation of the motives which enforced 
such resolution ; but not feeling strength for this, he limited his 
exertions to a forbearance from visiting her; and this sacrifice 
soon appeared the most painful of the two. 

Corinne was struck by the idea that she should see him no more; 
that he would fly without bidding her adieu. She expected every 
instant to hear of his departure ; and terror so aggravated her sen- 
sations, that the vulture talons of passion seized at once on her 
heart; and its peace, its liberty, crouched beneath them. Unable 
to rest in the house where Oswald came not, she wandered in the 
gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him; she had at least some 
chance of seeing him, and best supported the hours during which 
she trusted to this expectation. 

Her ardent fancy, the source of her talents, was unhappily 
blended with such natural feeling, that it now constituted her 
wretchedness. The evening of the fourth day’s absence the moon 
shone clearly over Rome, which, in the silence of night, looks 

7 * 


78 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


lovely, as if it were inhabited but by the spirits of the great. 
Corinne, on her way from the house of a female friend, left her 
carriage, and, oppressed with grief, seated herself beside the fount 
of Trevi, whose abundant cascade falls in the centre of Rome, and 
seems the life of that tranquil scene. Whenever its flow is sus- 
pended, all appears stagnation. In other cities it is the roll of 
carriages that the ear requires ; in Rome it is the murmur of this 
immense fountain, which seems the indispensable accompaniment 
of the dreamy life led there. Its water is so pure, that it has for 
many ages been named the Virgin Spring. The form of Corinne 
was now reflected on its surface. Oswald, who had paused there 
at the same moment, beheld the enchanting countenance of his 
love thus mirrored in the wave : at first, it affected him so strangely 
that he believed himself gazing on her phantom, as his imagina- 
tion had often conjured up that of his father : he leaned forward, 
in order to see it more plainly, and his own features appeared 
beside those of Corinne. She recognised them, shrieked, rushed 
towards him and seized his arm, as if she feared he would again 
escape; but scarcely had she yielded to this too impetuous im- 
pulse, ere, remembering the character of Lord Nevil, she blushed, 
her hand dropped, and with the other she covered her face to hide 
her tears. 

“ Corinne! dear Corinne !” he cried, “has then my absence 
pained you ?” — “ Yes,” she replied, “ you must have known it 
would. Why then inflict such pangs on me ? Have I deserved 
to suffer thus for you?” — “No, no,” he answered; “but if I 
cannot deem myself free — if my heart be filled by regret and 
fear, why should I involve you in its tortures ? Why ?” — “ It is 
too late to ask,” interrupted Corinne ; “ grief is already in my 
breast; bear with me!” — “Grief!” repeated Oswald; “in the 
midst of so brilliant a career, with so lively a genius !” — “ Hold,” 
she said, “you know me not. Of all my faculties, the most 
powerful is that of suffering. I was formed for happiness ; my 
nature is confiding and animated; but sorrow excites me to a 
degree that threatens my reason, nay, my life. Be careful of 
me ! My gay versatility serves me but in appearance : within 


79 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

my soul is an abyss of despair, which I can only avoid by pre» 
serving myself from love.” Corinne spoke with an expression 
which vividly affected Oswald. “ I will come to you to-morrow, 
rely on it, Corinne,” he said. “ Swear it !” she exclaimed, with 
an eagerness which she strove in vain to disguise. “ I do,” he 
answered, and departed. 


BOOK y. , 

THE TOMBS, CHURCHES, AND PALACES. 


CHAPTER I 

The next day Oswald and Corinne met in great embarrassment. 
She could no longer depend on the love she had inspired. He 
was dissatisfied with himself, and felt his own weakness rebel 
against the tyranny of his sentiments. Both sought to avoid the 
subject of their mutual affection. “To-day,” said Corinne, “I 
proposed a somewhat solemn excursion, but one which will be sure 
to interest you ; let us visit the last asylums of those who lived 
among the edifices we have seen in ruins.” — “You have guessed 
what would most suit my present disposition,” said Oswald, in so 
sad a tone, that she dared not speak again for some moments ; 
then gaining courage from her desire to soothe and entertain him, 
she added : “ You know, my Lord, that among the ancients, far 
from the sight of tombs discouraging the living, they were placed 
in the high road, to kindle emulation ; the young were thus con- 
stantly reminded of the illustrious dead, who seemed silently to 
bid them imitate their glories.” — “Ah !” sighed Oswald, “how I 
envy those who^e regrets are unstained by remorse.” — “Talk you 
of remorse ?” she cried ; “ then it is but one virtue the more, the 
scruples of a heart whose exalted delicacy — ” He interrupted 
her. “ Corinne ! Corinne ! do not approach that theme ; in your 


80 


CORINNE; OR, ITA jY. 


blest land gloomy thoughts are exhaled by the brightness of hea- 
ven; but with us grief buries itself in the depths of the soul, and 
shatters its strength forever.” — “You do me injustice,” she 
replied. “I have told you that, capable as I am of enjoyment, I 
should suffer more than you, if — ” she paused, and changed the 
subject; continuing, “My only wish, my Lord, is to divert your 
mind for awhile. I ask no more.” The meekness of this reply 
touched Oswald’s heart; and, as he marked the melancholy 
beauty of those eyes, usually so full of fire, he reproached himself 
with having thus depressed a spirit so framed for sweet and joy- 
ous impressions; he would fain have restored them ; but Corinne’s 
uncertainty of his intentions, as to his stay or departure, entirely 
disordered her accustomed serenity. 

She led him through the gates to the old Appian Way, whose 
traces are marked in the heart of the country by ruins on the 
right and left, for many miles beyond the walls. The Romans 
did not permit the dead to be buried within the city. None but 
the emperors were there interred, except one citizen named Pub- 
lius Biblius, who was thus recompensed for his humble virtues; 
such as, indeed, his contemporaries were most inclined to honor. 

To reach the Appian Way you leave Rome by the gate of St. 
Sebastian, formerly called the Capena Gate. The first tombs you 
then find, Cicero assures us, are those of Metellus, of Scipio, and 
Servilius. The tomb of the Scipio family was found here, and 
afterwards removed to the Vatican. It is almost sacrilege to dis- 
place such ashes. Imagination is more nearly allied to morality 
than is believed, and ought not to be offended. Among so many 
tombs names must be strewn at random; there is no way of 
deciding to which such or such title belongs ; but this very uncer- 
tainty prevents our looking on any of them with indifference. It 
was in such that the peasants made their homes ; for the Romans 
consecrated quite space enough to the urns of their illustrious 
fellow-citizens. They had not that principle of utility which, for 
the sake of cultivating a few feet of ground the more, lays waste 
the vast domain of feeling and of thought. At some distance 
from the Appian Way is a temple raised by the republic to 


81 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Honor and to Virtue; another to the god who caused the return 
of Hannibal. There, too, is the fountain of Egeria; where in 
solitude Numa conversed with Conscience, the divinity of the 
good. No monument of guilt invades the repose of these great 
beings; the earth around is sacred to the memory of worth. The 
noblest thoughts may reign there undisturbed. The aspect of 
the country near Rome is remarkably peculiar; it is but a desert, 
as boasting neither trees nor houses ; but the ground is covered 
with wild shrubs ceaselessly renewed by energetic vegetation. 
The parasitic tribes creep round the tombs, and decorate the 
ruins, as if in honor of their dead. Proud nature, conscious that 
no Cincinnatus now guides the plough that furrows her breast, 
there repulses the care of man, and produces plants which she 
permits not to serve the living. These uncultivated plains may, 
indeed, displease those who speculate on the earth’s capacity for 
supplying human wants ; but the pensive mind, more occupied by 
thoughts of death than of life, loves to contemplate the Campagna, 
on which present time has imprinted no trace; it cherishes the dead, 
and fondly covers them with useless flowers, that bask beneath 
the sun, but never aspire above the ashes which they appear tc 
caress. Oswald admitted that in such a scene a calm might be 
regained that could be enjoyed nowhere beside. The soul i& 
there less wounded by images of sorrow ; it seems to partake, with 
those now no more, the charm of that air, that sunlight, and that 
verdure. Corinne drew some hope from observing the effect thus 
taken on him ; she wished not to efface the just regret owed to 
the loss of his father; but regre? itself is capable of sweets, with 
which we should try to familiarize those who have tasted but its 
bitterness, for that is the only blessing we can confer on them. 

“ Let us rest,” said Corinne, “ before this tomb, which remains 
almost entire : it is not that of a celebrated man, but of a young 
girl, Cecilia Metella, to whom her father raised it.” — “ Happy 
the children,” sighed Oswald, “ who die on the bosom that gave 
them life : for them even death must lose its sting.” — “ Ay,” 
replied Corinne, with emotion, “ happy those who are not orphans. 
But look ! arms are sculptured here : the daughters of heroes had a 


82 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

right to bear the trophies of their sires : fair union of innocence 
and valor ! There is an elegy, by Propertius, which, better than 
any other writing of antiquity, describes the dignity of woman 
among the Romans ; a dignity more pure and more commanding 
than even that which she enjoyed during the age of chivalry 
Cornelia, dying in her youth, addresses to her husband a consola 
tory farewell, whose every word breathes her tender respect for 
all that is sacred in the ties of nature. The noble pride of a 
blameless life is well depicted in the majestic Latin ; in poetry 
august and severe as the masters of the world. ‘ Yes/ says Cor- 
nelia, ‘no stain has sullied my career, from the hour when 
Hymen’s torch was kindled, even to that which lights my funeral 
pyre. I have lived spotless between two flames. ’(12) What an 
admirable expression ! what a sublime image ! How enviable 
the woman who preserves this perfect unity in her fate, and car- 
ries but one remembrance to the grave ! That were enough for 
one life.” As she ceased, her eyes filled with tears. A cruel 
suspicion seized the heart of Oswald. “ Corinne,” he cried, “ has 
your delicate mind aught with which to reproach you? If I 
could offer you myself, should I not have rivals in the past? 
Could I pride in my choice? Might not jealousy disturb my 
delight?” — “I am free,” replied Corinne, “ and love you as I 
oever loved before. What would you have ? Must I confess, that, 
?re I knew you, I might have deceived myself as to the interest with 
which others inspired me ? Is there no divinity in man’s heart for 
the errors which, beneath such illusions, might have been commit- 
ted ?” A modest glow overspread her face. Oswald shuddered, 
but was silent. There was such timid penitence in the looks of 
Corinne, that he could not rigorously judge one whom a ray from 
heaven seemed descending to absolve. He pressed her hand to his 
heart, and knelt before her, without uttering a promise/indeed, 
but with a glance of love which left her all to hope. “ Let us 
form no plan for years to come,” she said : “ the happiest hours 
of life are those benevolently granted us by chance : it is not 
here, in the midst of tombs, that we should trust much to the 
future.” “No,” cried Nevil; “I believe in no future that can 
part us * four day® «f absence have but too well convinced me that 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. S3 

X now exist but for you.” Corinne made no reply, but religiously 
hoarded these precious words in her heart : she always feared, in 
prolonging a conversation on the only subject of her thoughts, 
lest Oswald should declare his intentions before a longer habit 
of being with her rendered separation impossible. She often de- 
signedly directed his attention to exterior objects, like the sultana 
in the Arabian tales, who sought by a thousand varied stories to 
captivate her beloved, and defer his decision of her fate, till certain 
that her wit must prove victorious. 


CHAPTER II. 

Not far from the Appian Way is seen the Columbarium, where 
slaves are buried with their lords; where the same tomb contains 
all who dwelt beneath the protection of one master or mistress. 
The women devoted to the care of Livia’s beauty, who contended 
with time for the preservation of her charms, are placed in small 
urns beside her. The noble and ignoble there repose in equal 
silence. At a little distance is the field wherein vestals, unfaith- 
ful to their vows were interred alive; a singular example of 
fanaticism in a religion naturally so tolerant, 

11 1 shall not take you to the catacombs,” said Corinne , 11 though, 
by a strange chance, they lie beneath the Appian Way, tombs 
upon tombs ! But that asylum of persecuted Christians is so 
gloomy and terrible, that I cannot resolve to revisit it, It has 
not the touching melancholy which one breathes in open wilds ; 
it is a dungeon near a sepulchre — the tortures of existence beside 
the horrors of death. Doubtless one must admire men who, by 
the mere force of enthusiasm, could support that subterranean 
life — forever banished from the sun; but the soul is too ill at 
ease in such a scene to be benefited by it. Man is a part of crea- 
tion, and finds his own moral harmony in that of the universe ; in 
the habitual order of fate, violent exceptions may astonish, but 
they create too much terror to be of service. Let us rather seek 
the pyramid of Cestius, around which all Protestants who die 


64 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


here find charitable graves.” — “Yes,” returned Oswald, “'many 
a countryman of mine is amongst them. Let us go there ; in one 
sense at least, perhaps, I shall never leave you.” Corinne’s hand 
trembled on his arm. He continued, “Yet I am much better 
since I have known you.” Her countenance resumed its wonted 
air of tender joy. 

Cestius presided over the Roman sports. His name is not 
found in history, but rendered famous by his tomb. The massive 
pyramid that inclosed him defends his death from the oblivion 
which has utterly effaced his life. Aurelian, fearing that this 
pyramid would be used but as a fortress from whence to attack 
the city, had it surrounded by walls which still exist, not as use- 
less ruins, but as the actual boundaries of modern Rome. It is 
said that pyramids were formed in imitation of the flames that 
rose from funeral pyres. Certainly their mysterious shape attracts 
the eye, and gives a picturesque character to all the views of 
which they constitute a part. 

In front of this pyramid is Mount Testacio, beneath which are 
several cool grottoes, where fêtes are held in the summer. If, at 
a distance, the revellers see pines and cypresses shading their 
smiling land and recalling a solemn consciousness of death, this 
contrast produces the same effect with the lines which Horace has 
written in the midst of verses teeming with earthly enjoyment : — 

“ Moriture Delli, 

* * * * 

Linquenda tellus, et domus, et placens 
Uxor.” 

1 Dellius, remember thou must die — leaving the world, thy home, 
and gentle wife/ The ancients acknowledged this in their very 
voluptuousness ; even love and festivity reminded them of it, and 
joy seemed heightened by a sense of its brevity. 

Oswald and Corinne returned by the side of the Tiber; formerly 
covered with vessels, and banked by palaces. Of yore, even its 
inundations were regarded as omens. It was then the prophetic, 
the tutelar divinity of Rome.(13) It may now be said to flow 
among phantoms, so livid is its hue — so deep its loneliness. The 


85 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

finest statues and other works of art were thrown into the Tiber, 
and are hidden beneath its tides. Who knows but that, in search 
of them, the river may at last be driven from its bed ? But, while 
we muse on efforts of human genius that lie, perhaps, beneath 
us, and that some eye, more piercing than our own, may yet see 
through these waves, we feel that awe which, in Rome, is con- 
stantly reviving in various forms, and giving the mind companions 
in those physical objects which are elsewhere dumb. 


CHAPTER III. 

Raphael said that modern Rome was almost entirely built 
from the ruins of the ancient city ; Pliny had talked of the “ eter- 
nal walls,” which are still seen amid the works of latter times. 
Nearly all the buildings bear the stamp of history, teaching you 
to compare the physiognomies of different ages. From the days 
of the Etruscans — a people senior to the Romans themselves, re- 
sembling the Egyptians in the solidity and eccentricity of their de- 
signs — down to the time of Bernini, an artist, as guilty of mannerism 
as were the Italian poets of the seventeenth century, one may trace 
the progress of the human mind, in the characters of the arts, the 
buildings, and ruins. The Middle Ages and the brilliant day of the 
Be Medici, reappearing in their works, it is but to study the past 
in the present, to penetrate the secrets of all time. It is believed 
that Rome had formerly a mystic name, known but to few. The 
city has still spells, into which we require initiation. It is not 
simply an assemblage of dwellings; it is a chronicle of the world, 
represented by figurative emblems. Corinne agreed with Nevil, 
that they would now explore modern Rome, reserving for another 
opportunity its admirable collection of pictures and statues. Per- 
haps, without confessing it to herself, she wished to defer these 
sights as long as possible : for who has ever left Rome, without 
looking on the Apollo Belvidere and the paintings of Raphael ? 
This security, weak as it was, that Oswald would not yet depart. 

8 


86 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

was everything to her. Where is their pride ? some may ash, who 
would retain those they love by any other motive than that of 
affection. I know not — but, the more we love, the less we rely 
on our own power; and, whatever be the cause which secures us 
the presence of the object dear to us, it is accepted with gratitude. 
There is often much vanity in a certain species of pride ; and if 
women, as generally admired as Corinne, have one real advantage, 
it is the right to exult rather in what they feel than in what they 
inspire. 

Corinne and Nevil recommenced their excursions, by visiting 
the most remarkable among the numerous churches of Rome, 
They are all adorned by magnificent antiquities; but these festal 
ornaments, torn from pagan temples, have here a strange, wild 
effect. Granite and porphyry pillars are so plentiful, that they 
are lavished as if almost valueless. At St. John Lateran, famed 
for the councils that have been held in it, so great is the quantity 
of marble columns, that many of them are covered with cement, 
to form pilasters; thus indifferent has this profusion of riches 
rendered its possessors. Some of these pillars belonged to the 
Tomb of Adrian, others to the Capitol ; some still bear the forms 
of the geese which preserved the Romans ; others have Gothic 
and even Arabesque embellishments. The urn of Agrippa con- 
tains the ashes of a pope. The dead of one generation give place 
to the dead of another, and tombs here as often change their oc- 
cupants as the abodes of the living. Near St. John Lateran are 
the holy stairs, brought, it is said, from Jerusalem, and which no 
one ascends but on his knees; as Claudius, and even Caesar, 
mounted those which led to the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus., 
Reside St. John’s is the front where Constantine is supposed to 
have been baptized. In the centre of this ground is an obelisk, 
perhaps the most ancient work of art in the world — contemporary 
with the Trojan war — so respected, even by the barbarous Cam- 
byses, that he put a stop to the conflagration of a city in its ho- 
nor; and, for its sake, a king pledged the life of his only son. 
The Romans brought it from the heart of Egypt by miracle. They 
turned the Nile from his course that it might be found, and car- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


87 


ried to the sea. This obelisk is still covered with hieroglyphics, 
which have kept their secret for centuries, and defy the sages of 
to-day to decipher signs that might reveal the annals of India and 
of Egypt — the antiquities of antiquity ! The wondrous charm of 
Rome consists not only in the real beauty of her monuments, but 
in the interest they excite ; the material for thinking they sug- 
gest ; the speculations which grow, every day, the stronger from 
each E3w study. 

One of the most singular churches in Rome is St. Paul’s : its 
exterior is that of an ill-built barn ; yet it is bedecked within by 
eighty pillars of such exquisite material and proportion, that they 
are believed to have been transported from an Athenian temple, 
described by Pausanias. If Cicero said, in his day, " we are sur- 
rounded by vestiges of history/’ what would he say now? Co- 
lumns, statues, and pictures are so prodigally crowded in the 
churches of modern Rome, that, in St. Agnes’s, bas-reliefs, turned 
face downwards, serve to pave a staircase, no one troubling him- 
self to ascertain what they might represent. How astonishing a 
spectacle were ancient Rome, had its treasures been left where 
they were found ! The immortal city, nearly as it was of yore, 
were still before us : but could the men of our day dare to enter 
it ? The palaces of the Roman lords are vast in the extreme, and 
often display much architectural grace; but their interiors are 
rarely arranged by good taste. They have none of those ele- 
gant apartments invented elsewhere for the perfect enjoyment 
of social life. Superb galleries, hung with the chefs-d’œuvre of 
the tenth Leo’s age are abandoned to the gaze of strangers, by 
their lazy proprietors, who retire to their own obscure little 
chambers, dead to the pomp of their ancestors, as were they to the 
austere virtues of the Roman republic. The country-houses give 
one a still greater idea of solitude, and of their owners’ careless- 
ness amid the loveliest scenes of nature. One walks immense 
gardens, doubting if they have a master; the grass grows in 
every path, yet in these very alleys are the trees cut into shapes^ 
after the fantastic mode that once reigned in France. Strange 
inconsistency ! this neglect of essentials, and affectation in what 


88 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

is useless ! Most Italian towns, indeed, surprise us with this 
mania, in a people who have constantly beneath their eyes such 
models of noble simplicity. They prefer glitter to convenience ; 
and in every way betray the advantages and disadvantages of not 
habitually mixing with society. Their luxury is rather that of 
fancy than of comfort. Isolated among themselves, they dread 
not that spirit of ridicule, which, in truth, seldom penetrates the 
interior of Roman abodes. Contrasting this with what they 
appear from without, one might say that they were rather built 
to dazzle the peasantry than for the reception of friends. 

Alter having shown Oswald the churches and the palaces, Co- 
rinne led him to the Villa Melini, whose lonely garden is orna- 
mented solely by majestic trees. From thence is seen afar the 
chain of the Apennines, tinted by the transparent air, against 
which their outlines are defined most picturesquely. Oswald and 
Corinne rested for some time, to taste the charms of heaven and 
the tranquillity of nature. No one who has not dwelt in south- 
ern climes can form an idea of this stirless silence, unbroken by 
the lightest zephyr. The tenderest blades of herbage remain per- 
fectly motionless ; even the animals partake this noontide lassi- 
tude. You hear no hum of insects, no chirp of grasshoppers, no 
song of birds ; nothing is agitated, all sleeps, till storm or passion 
waken that natural vehemence which impetuously rushes from 
this profound repose. The Roman garden possesses a great 
number of evergreens, that, during winter, add to the illusion 
which the mild air creates. The tufted tops of pines, so close 
to each other that they form a kind of plain in the air, have a 
charming effect from any eminence ; trees of inferior stature are 
sheltered by this verdant arch. Only two palms are to be found 
in the Monks’ Gardens : one is on a height ; it may be seen from 
some distance always with pleasure. In returning towards tho 
city, this image of a meridian more burning than that of Italy 
awakens a host of agreeable sensations. 

u Do you not find,” said Corinne, u that nature here gives 
birth to reveries elsewhere unknown ? She is as intimate with 
the heart of man as if the Creator made her the interpretress 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 89 

between nis creatures and himself.” — “ 1 feel all this,” replied 
Oswald ; “ yet it may be but your melting influence -which ren 
ders me so susceptible. You reveal to me emotions which exterioi 
objects may create. I lived but in my heart; you have revived ray 
imagination. But the magic of the universe, which you teach me 
to appreciate, will never offer me aught lovelier than your looks, 
more touching than your voice .” — 11 May the feeling I kindle in 
your breast to-day,” said Corinne, “ last as long as my life ; or, at 
least, may my life last no longer than your love !” They finished* 
their tour of Borne by the Villa Borghese. In no Boman palace 
or garden are the splendors of nature and art collected so taste- 
fully. Every kind of tree, superb waterfalls, with an incredible 
blending of statues, vases, and sarcophagi, here reanimate the 
mythology of the land. Naiads recline beside the streams, 
nymphs start from thickets worthy of such guests. Tombs 
repose beneath Elysian shades; Esculapius stands in the centre 
of an island ; Venus appears gliding from a bower. Ovid and 
Virgil might wander here, and believe themselves still in the 
Augustan age. The great works of sculpture, which grace this 
scene, give it a charm forever new. Through its trees may bo 
descried the city, St. Peters, the Campagna, and those long 
arcades, ruins of aqueducts, which formerly conducted many a 
mountain stream into old Borne. There is everything that can 
mingle purity with pleasure, and promise perfect happiness : but 
if you ask why this delicious spot is not inhabited, you will be 
told, that the cattiva aria , or bad air, prevents its being occupied 
in summer. This enemy, each year, besieges Borne more and 
more closely — its most charming abodes are deserted perforce. 
Doubtless the want of trees is one cause; and therefore did the 
Bomans dedicate their woods to goddesses, that they might be 
respected by the people : yet have numberless forests been felled 
in our own times. What can now be so sanctified that avarice 
will forbear its devastation ? This malaria is the scourge of 
Borne, and often threatens its whole population ; yet, perhaps, it 
adds to the effect produced by the lovely gardens to be found 
W'thin the boundaries. Its malignant power is betrayed by no 
8 * 


90 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

external sign : you respire an air that seems pure ; the earth is 
fertile ; a delicious freshness atones in the evening for the heat of 
the day ; and all this is death ! 

“I love such invisible danger, ” said Oswald, l( veiled as it is 
in delight. If death, as I believe, he but a call to happier life, 
why should not the perfume of flowers, the shade of fine trees, 
and the breath of eve be charged to remind us of our fate ? Of 
course, government ought, in every way, to watch over human 
life ; but nature has secrets which imagination only can penetrate ; 
and I easily conceive that neither natives nor foreigners find any- 
thing to disgust them in the perils which belong to the sweetest 
seasons of the year.” 


BOOK VI. 

ON ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS. 


CHAPTER I. 

Oswald’s irresolution, augmented by misfortunes, taught him 
to fear every irrevocable engagement. He dared not ask Corinne 
her name or story, though his love for her grew each day more 
strong; he could not look on her without emotion; hardly, in 
the midst of society, quit her side for an instant ; she said not a 
word he did not feel, nor expressed a sentiment, sad or gay, that 
was not reflected in his face. Yet, loving, admiring her as he 
did, he forgot not how little such a wife would accord with 
English habits ; how much she differed from the idea his father 
formed of the woman it would become him to marry ; all he said 
to Corinne was restrained by the disquiet these reflections caused 
him. She perceived this but too plainly; yet so much would it 
have cost her to break with him, that she lent herself to whatever 
could prevent a decisive explanation ; and, never possessing much 
forethought, revelled in the present, such as it was, not dreaming 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


91 


of the inevitable future. She entirely secluded herself from the 
world in this devotion to him ; but, at last, hurt by his silence on 
their prospects, she resolved to accept a pressing invitation to a 
ball. Nothing is more common, in Rome, than for persons to 
leave and return to society by fits; there is s<5 little gossip in 
Italy, that people do what they like, without comment, at least 
without obstacle, in affairs either of love or ambition. Foreigners 
are as safe as natives in this rendezvous of Europeans. When 
Nevil learned that Corinne was going to a ball, he was out of 
humor ; for some time he had fancied that he detected in her a 
melancholy sympathetic with his own ; yet suddenly she appeared 
to think of nothing but dancing (in which she so much excelled), 
and the eclat of a fête. Corinne was not frivolous ; but, feeling 
every day more subdued by love, she wished to combat its force. 
She knew by experience that reflection and forbearance have less 
power over impassioned characters than dissipation; and she 
thought that, if unable to triumph over herself as she ought, the 
next best step were to do as she could. When Nevil censured 
her intentions, she replied, “ I want to ascertain whether what 
formerly pleased can still amuse me, or whether my regard for 
you is to absorb every other interest of my life.” — “ You would 
fain cease to love me,” he said. “ Not so,” she replied ; “ but it 
is only in domestic life that it can be agreeable to feel one's self 
lorded over by a single affection. To me, who need my wit and 
genius to sustain the reputation of .the life I have adopted, it is a 
great misfortune to love as I love you.” — “ You will not sacrifice 
your glory to me, then?” cried Oswald. — “Of what importance 
were it to you,” she replied, “if I did ? Since we are not des- 
tined for each other, I must not forever destroy the kind of hap- 
piness with which I ought to content myself.” Lord Nevil said 
nothing; concious that he could not now speak without explain- 
ing his designs; and, in truth, he was ignorant of them himself. 
He sighed, and reluctantly followed Corinne to the ball. It was 
the first time, since his loss, that he had gone to such an assembly. 
Its tumult so oppressed him that he remained for some period in 
a hall beside the dancing-room, with his head reclined upon hia 


92 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


hand ; not even wishing to see Corinne dance. All music, even 
if its occasion be a gay one, renders us pensive. The Count 
d’Erfeuil arrived, enchanted with the crowd and amusements, 
which once more reminded him of France. u I’ve done my best/’ 
he said, “ to interest myself in their vaunted ruins, but I see 
nothing in them ; ’tis a mere prejudice, this fuss about rubbish 
covered with briers ! I shall speak my mind waen I return to 
France ; for it is high time that the farce should be ended. There 
is not a single building of to-day in good repair, that is not worth 
all these trunks of pillars, and mouldy bas-reliefs, which can only 
be admired through the spectacles of pedantry. A- rapture which 
one must purchase by study cannot be very vivid in itself. One 
needs not spoil one’s complexion over musty books, to appreciate 
the sights of Paris.” 

Lord Nevil was silent, and d’Erfeuil questioned him on his 
opinion of Rome. “A ball is not the place for serious con- 
versation,” said Oswald ; “ and you know that I can afford you no 
other.” — “ Mighty fine,” replied the Count. “ I own I am gayer 
than you ; but who can say that I am not wiser too ? Trust me, 
there is much philosophy in taking the world as it goes.” — “ Per 
haps you are right,” answered Oswald ; “ but, as you are what 
you are by nature, and not by reflection, your manner of living 
can belong to no one but yourself” 

D’Erfeuil now heard the name of Corinne from the ball-room, 
and went to learn what was doing there. Nevil followed him to 
the door, and saw the handsome Neapolitan Prince Amalfi 
soliciting her to dance the Tarantula with him. All her friends 
joined in this request. She waited for no importunity, but pro- 
mised with a readiness which astonished d’Erfeuil, accustomed as 
he was to the refusals with which it is the fashion to precede con- 
sent. In Italy these airs are unknown ; there, every one is simple 
enough to believe that he cannot better please society than by 
promptly fulfilling whatever it requires. Corinne would have 
introduced this natural manner, if she had not found it there. 
The dress she had assumed was light and elegant. Her locks 
were confined by a silken fillet, and her eyes expressed an anima- 


93 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

don which rendered her more attractive than ever. Oswald was 
uneasy; displeased with his own subjection to charms whose ex- 
istence he was inclined to deplore, as, far from wishing to gratify 
him, it was almost in order to escape from his power that Corinne 
shone forth thus enchautingly ; yet, who could resist her seducing 
grace ? Even in scorn she would have been still triumphant; but 
scorn was notin her disposition. She perceived her lover; and 
blushed, as she bestowed on him one of her sweetest smiles. The 
Prince Amalfi accompanied himself with castanets. Corinne 
saluted the assembly with both hands; then, turning, took the 
tambourine, which her partner presented to her, and she beat 
time as she danced. Her gestures displayed that easy union of 
modesty and voluptuousness, such as must have so awed the In- 
dians when the Bayardères — poets of the dance — depicted the 
various passions by characteristic attitudes. Corinne was so well 
icquainted with antique painting and sculpture, that her positions 
were so many studies for the votaries of art. Now she held her 
tambourine above her head ; sometimes advanced it with one hand, 
while the other ran over its little bells with a dexterous rapidity 
that brought to mind the girls of Herculaneum. (14) This was 
not French dancing, remarkable for the difficulty of its steps; it 
was a movement more allied to fancy and to sentiment. The air 
to which she danced, pleased alternately by its softness and its 
precision. Corinne as thoroughly infected the spectators with 
her own sensations as she did while extemporizing poetry, playing 
on her lyre, or designing an expressive group. Everything was 
language for her. The musicians, in gazing on her, felt all the 
genius of their art; and every witness of this magic was electrified 
by impassioned joy, transported into an ideal world, there to 
dream of bliss unknown below. 

There is a part of the Neapolitan dance where the heroine 
kneels, while the hero marches round her, like a conqueror. How 
dignified looked Corinne at that moment ! What a sovereign 
she was on her knees ! and when she rose, clashing her airy tam- 
bourine, she appeared animated by such enthusiasm of youthful 
beauty, that one might have thought she needed no life but her 


94 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

own to make her happy. Alas, it was not thus ! though Oswald 
feared it, and sighed as if her every success separated her farther 
from him. When the Prince, in his turn knelt to Corinne, she, 
if possible, surpassed herself. Twice or thrice she fled round him, 
her sandalled feet skimming the floor with the speed of lightning; 
and when shaking her tambourine above his head with one band, 
she signed with the other for him to rise, every man present was 
tempted to prostrate himself before her, except Lord Nevil, who 
drew back some paces, and d’Erfeuil, who made a step or two 
forwards, in order to compliment Corinne. The Italians gave way 
to what they felt, without one fear of making themselves remark- 
able. They were not like men so accustomed to society, and the 
self-love which it excites, as to think on the effect they might 
produce ; they are never to be turned from their pleasures by 
vanity, nor from their purposes by applause. 

Corinne, charmed with the result of her attempt, thanked her 
friends with amiable simplicity. She was satisfied, and permitted 
her content to be seen, with childlike candor; her greatest desire 
was to get through the crowd to the door, against which Oswald 
was leaning. She reached it at last, and paused for him to speak. 
11 Corinne,” he said, endeavoring to conceal both his delight and 
his distress, u you have extorted universal homage : but is 
there, among all your adorers, one brave, one trusty friend ; one 
protector for life ? or can the clamors of flattery suffice a soul like 
yours ?” 


CHAPTER II. 

The press of company prevented Corinne’s reply : they were 
going to supper; and each cavaliêr servénte hastened to seat 
himself beside his lady. A fair stranger arrived and found no 
room; yet not a man, save Oswald and d’Erfeuil, rose to offer her 
his place. Not that the Romans were either rude or selfish ; but 
they believed that their honor depended on their never quitting 


95 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

their post of duty. Some, unable to gain seats, leaned behind 
their mistresses’ chairs, ready to obey the slightest sign. The 
females spoke but to their lovers : strangers wandered in vain 
around a circle where no one had a word to spare them ; for Italian 
women are ignorant of that coquetry which renders a love affair 
nothing more than the triumph of self-conceit ; they wish to please 
no eyes save those that are dear to them. The mind is never 
misled before the heart. The most abrupt commencements are 
often followed by sincere devotion, and even by lasting constancy. 
Infidelity is more censured in man than in woman. Three or 
four men, beneath different titles, may follow the same beauty, 
who takes them with her everywhere, sometimes without troubling 
herself to name them to the master of the house which receives 
the party. One is the favorite ; another aspires to be so ; a third 
calls himself the sufferer (il patito) ; though disdained, he is 
permitted to be of use ; all the rivals live peaceably together. It 
is only among the common people that you still hear of the stiletto ; 
but the whole country presents a wild mixture of simpleness and 
of vice, dissimulation and truth, good-nature and revenge, strength 
and weakness ; justifying the remark, that the best of these quali- 
ties may be found among those who will do nothing for vanity ; 
the worst among such as will do anything for interest; whether 
the interest of love, of avarice, or ambition. Distinctions of rank 
are generally disregarded in Italy. It is not from stoicism, but 
from heedless familiarity, that men are here insensible to aristo. 
cratic prejudices; constituting themselves judges of no one, they 
admit everybody. After supper they sat down to play ; some of 
the women at hazard, others chose silent whist ; and not a word 
was now uttered in the apartment, so noisy just before. The 
people of the south often run thus quickly from the extreme of 
agitation to that of repose; ‘t is one of the peculiarities of their 
character, that indolence is succeeded by activity : indeed, in all 
respects they are the last men on whose merits or defects we 
ought to decide at first sight; so contrasted are the qualities they 
unite; the * creatures all prudence to-day may be all audacity to* 


96 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

morrow. They are often apathetic, from just having made, of 
preparing to make, some great exertion. In fact, they waste not, 
one energy of their minds on society, but hoard them till called 
forth by strong events. At this assembly many persons lost 
enormous sums, wjthout the slightest change of countenance ; yet 
the same beings could not have related a trivial anecdote without 
the most lively and expressive gesticulation. But when the pas- 
sions have attained a certain degree of violence, they shrink from 
sight and veil themselves in silence. 

Nevil could not surmount the bitter feelings this ball engen- 
dered ; he believed that the Italians had weaned his love from him 
at least for a time. He was very wretched ; yet his pride pre- 
vented his evincing aught beyond a contempt for the tributes offered 
her. When asked to play he refused, as did Corinne, who beck- 
oned him to sit beside her; he feared to compromise her name by 
passing a whole evening alone with her before the eyes of the 
world. “.Be at ease on that head,” she replied; “no one thinks 
about us. Here no established etiquette exacts respect ; a kindly 
politeness is all that is required; no one wishes to annoy or to be 
annoyed. 'Tis true that we have not here what in England is 
called liberty; but our social independence is perfect.” — “That 
is,” said Oswald, “ that no reverence is paid to appearances.” — “At 
least, here is no hypocrisy,” she answered. — “ Rochefoucault says : 
( The least among the defects of a woman of gallantry is that of 
being one ;’ but whatever be the faults of Italian women, deceit 
does not conceal them ; and if marriage vows are not held sufficient- 
ly sacred, they are broken by mutual consent.” — “ It is not sincerity 
that causes this kind of frankness,” replied Oswald, “ but indif- 
ference to public opinion. I brought hither an introduction to a 
princess, and gave it to the servant I had hired here, who said to 
me : ‘Ah, sir, just now, this will do no service, the princess sees 
no one; she is innamordta / Thus was the fact of a lady's being 
in love proclaimed like any other domestic affair. Nor is this 
publicity excused by fidelity to one passion : many attachments 
succeed each other, all equally known. Women have so little 
mystery in these ties, that they speak of them with less embar- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 97 

rassment than our brides could talk of their husbands. It is not 
easy to believe that any deep or refined affection can exist with 
this shameless fickleness. Though nothing is thought of but love, 
here can be no romance : adventures are so rapid, and so open, 
that nothing is left to be developed ; and, justly to describe the 
general method of arranging these tnings, one ought to begin and 
end in the first chapter. Corinne, pardon me if I give you pain. 
You are an Italian ; that should disarm me : but one reason why 
you are thus incomparable is, that you unite the best characteris- 
tics of our different nations. I know not where you were educated, 
but you certainly cannot have passed all your life here : perhaps, 
it was in England. Ah, if so, how could you leave that sanctuary 
of all that is modest, for a land where not only virtue, but love itself 
is so little understood ! It may be breathed in the air, but does it 
reach the heart ? The poetry, here, in which love plays so great a 
part, is full of brilliant pictures, indeed; but where will you find 
the melancholy tenderness of our bards ? What have you to com- 
pare with the parting of Jaffier and Belvidera, with Romeo and 
Juliet, or with the lines in Thomson's Spring, depicting the hap- 
piness of wedded life ? Is there any such life in Italy ? and, without 
homefelt felicity, how can love exist ? Is not happiness the aim of 
the heart, as pleasure is that of the senses? Would not all young 
and lovely women be alike to us, did not mental qualities decide 
our preference ? What then, do these qualities teach us to crave ? 
an intercourse of thought and feeling, permanent and undivided ! 
This is what we mean by marriage. Illegitimate love, when, un- 
happily, it does occur among us, is still but the reflex of marriage. 
The same comfort is sought abroad which cannot be found at home ; 
and even infidelity in England is more moral than Italian matri- 
mony." 

This severity so afflicted Corinne that she rose, her eyes filled 
with tears, and hurried home. Oswald was in despair at having 
offended her; but the irritation this ball had dealt him, found a 
channel in the censure he had just pronounced. He followed her ; 
but she would not see him. Next morning he made another at- 
tempt; but her door was still closed. This was out of character 
9 


98 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. • 


in Corinne ; but she was so dismayed by his opinion of her coun 
trywomen, that she resolved, if possible, to conceal her affection 
from him forever. Oswald, on his part, was confirmed by this 
unusual conduct in the discontent that unlucky fête had engen- 
dered; he was excited to struggle against the sentiment whose 
empire he dreaded. His principles were strict. 

Corinne’s manners sometimes evinced a too universal wish tc 
please ; her conduct and carriage were noble and reserved ; but 
her opinions were over-indulgent. In fact, though dazzled and 
enervated, something still combatted his weakness. Such a state 
often embitters our language; wë are displeased with ourselves 
and others ; we suffer so much, that we long to brave the worst 
at once, and, by open war, ascertain which of our two formidable 
emotions is to triumph. It was in this mood that he wrote to 
Corinne. He knew his letter was angry and unbecoming; yet a 
confusion of impulses urged him to send it. He was so miserable 
in his present situation, that he longed, at any price, for some 
change; and was reckless how his doubts were answered, so that 
they came to a termination. A rumor brought him by Count 
d’Erfeuil, though he believed it not, contributed, perhaps, to 
render his style still more unkind. It was said that Corinne was 
about to marry Prince Amalfi. Oswald well knew that she did 
not love this man, and ought to have been sure that the report 
sprung merely from her having danced with him ; but he per- 
suaded himself that she had received Amalfi when denied to him ; 
therefore; though too proud to confess his personal jealousy, he 
vented it on the people in whose favor he knew her to be so 
prepossessed. 


CHAPTER III. 

“TO CORINNE. 

“January 24, 1795. 

“ You refuse to see me ; you are offended by my last conversa- 
tion, and, no doubt, intend henceforth to admit none but your 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


99 


countrymen, and thus expiate your recent deviation from that rule. 
Yet, far from repenting the sincerity with which I spoke to you , 
whom, perhaps chimerically, I would fain consider an English- 
woman, I will dare to say, still more plainly, that you can preserve 
neither your own dignity nor your own peace, by choosing a hus- 
band from your present society. I know not one Italian who de- 
serves you ; not one who could honor you by his alliance, whatever 
were the title he had to bestow. The men are far less estimable 
here than the women, to whose errors they add worse of their own. 
Would you persuade me that these sons of the South, who so care- 
fully avoid all trouble, and live but for enjoyment, can be capable 
of love ? Did you not, last month, see at the Opera a man who had 
not eight days before lost a wife he was said to adore ? The me- 
mory of the dead, the thought of death itself, is here, as much as 
possible, thrown aside. Funeral ceremonies are performed by 
the priests, as the duties of love are fulfilled by cavalières servéntes. 
Custom has prescribed all rites beforehand : regret and enthusi- 
asm are nothing. But what, above all, must be destructive to 
love, is the fact that your men cannot be respected; women give 
them no credit for submission, because they found them originally 
weak, and destitute of all serious employment. It is requisite, for 
the perfection of natural and social order, that men should pro- 
tect, and women be protected; but by guardians adoring the 
weakness they defend, *nd worshipping the gentle divinity which, 
like the Penates of the ancients, calls down good fortune on the 
house. Here one might almost say that woman is the sultan, and 
men her seraglio; it is they who have most pliancy and softness. 
An Italian proverb says: ‘Who knows not how to feign, knows 
not how to live/ Is not that a feminine maxim ? but where you 
have neither military glory nor free institutions, how should men 
acquire strength and majesty of mind ? Their wit degenerates into 
a kind of cleverness, with which they play the game of life like a 
match at chess, wherein success is everything. All that remains 
of their love for antiquity consists in exaggerated expressions and 
external grandeur; but, beside this baseless greatness, you often 
find the most vulgar tastes, the most miserably neglected homes 


L.ofC. 


100 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


Is this, then, Corinne, the country you prefer ? Is its boisterous 
applause so essential to you, that every other kind of destiny 
would seem dull, compared with these re-echoing brâvos ? Who 
could hope to make you happy, in tearing you from this tumult ? 
You are an incomprehensible person : deep in feeling, superficial 
in taste ; independent by pride of soul, enslaved by a desire for 
dissipation ; capable of loving but one, yet requiring the notice of 
all the world. You are a sorceress, who alternately disturb and 
reassure me ; who, when most sublime, can at once descend from 
the region where you reign alone, to lose yourself among the herd. 
Corinne, Corinne ! in loving you, it is impossible to avoid fearing 
and doubting too. “ Oswald/' 

Indignant as Corinne felt at Nevil’s antipathy to her country, 
she was relieved by guessing that the fête, and her refusal tc 
speak with him, had ruffled his temper. She hesitated, or believed 
herself hesitating, for some time, as to the line of conduct she ought 
to pursue. Love made her sigh for his presence : yet she could 
not brook his supposing that she wished to be his wife; though in 
fortune, at least, his equal, and no way beneath him in name', if 
she deigned to reveal it. The uncontrolled ^fe she had chosen, 
might have given her some aversion to marriage ; and, certainly, 
had not her attachment blinded her to all the pangs she must en- 
dure in espousing an Englishman, and renouncing Italy, she would 
have repulsed such an idea with disdain. A woman may forget 
her pride in all that concerns the heart : but when worldly inte- 
rest appears the obstacle to inclination»; when the person beloved 
can be accused of sacrificing himself in his union, she can no 
longer abandon herself to her feelings before him. Corinne, how- 
ever, unable to break with her lover, trusted that she still might 
meet him, yet conceal her affection. It was in this belief that she 
determined on replying only to his accusations of the Italians, 
and reasoning on them as if interested by no other subject. Per- 
haps the best way in which such a woman can regain her coldness 
and her dignity, is that of entrenching herself in the fortress of 
her mental superiority 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


101 


“TO lord neyil. 

“Jan. 25, 1795. 

“ Ip your letter concerned no one but me, my Lord, I should 
not attempt to justify myself. My character is so easily known, 
that he who cannot comprehend it intuitively, would not be en 
lightened by any explanation I could give. The virtuous reserve 
of Englishwomen, and the more artful graces of the French, often 
conceal one half of what passes in their bosoms; and what you 
are pleased to call magic in me, is nothing but an unconstrained 
disposition, which permits my varying, my inconsistent thoughts 
to be heard, without my taking the pains of bringing them into 
tune. Such harmony is nearly always factitious; for most 
genuine characters are heedlessly confiding. But it is not of my- 
self that I would speak to you ; it is of the unfortunate nation 
which you attack so cruelly. Can my regard for my friends have 
instilled this bitter malignity ? You know me too well to be 
jealous of them : nor have I the vanity to suppose that any such 
sentiment has rendered you thus unjust. You say but what all 
foreigners say of the Italians, what must strike every one at first ; 
but you should look deeper ere you thus sentence a people once so 
great. Whence came it that, in the Roman day, they were the 
most military in the world ; during the republics of the Middle 
Ages, the most tenacious of their freedom ; and, in the sixteenth 
century, the most illustrious for literature, science, and the arts ? 
Has not Italy pursued fame in every shape ? If it be lost to her 
now, blame her political situation ; since, in other circumstances, 
she showed herself so unlike all she is. I may be wrong, but 
the faults of the Italians only enhance my pity for their fate. 
Strangers, from time to time, have conquered and distracted this 
fair land, the object of their perpetual ambition; yet strangers 
forever reproach her natives with the defects inevitable to a van- 
quished race. 

“ Europe owes her learning, her accomplishments, to the Ita- 
lians ; and, having turned their own gifts against them, would 
gladly deny them the only glory left to a people deprived of mar- 
tial power and public liberty. It is true that governments for» 
9 * 


102 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

the characters of nations ; and, in Italy herself, you will find re* 
markable distinctions between the inhabitants of different states. 
The Piedmontese, who once formed a small national corps, have 
a more warlike spirit than the rest. The Florentines, who have 
mostly possessed either freedom or liberal rulers, are well-edu- 
cated and well-mannered. The Venetians and the Genoese evince 
a capacity for politics, because they have a republican aristocracy. 
The Milanese are more sincere, thanks to their long intercourse 
with northern nations. The Neapolitans are prompt to rebel, 
having for ages lived beneath an imperfect government, but still 
one of their own. The Roman nobles have nothing to do, either 
diplomatic or military, and may well remain idly ignorant; but 
the ecclesiastics, whose career is definite, have faculties far more 
developed ; and, as the papal law observes no distinction of birth, 
but is purely elective in its ordinance of the clergy, the result is, 
a species of liberality, not in ideas, but in habits, which ren- 
ders Rome the most agreeable abode for those who have neither 
power nor emulation for sustaining a part in the world. The 
people of the South are more easily modified by existing insti- 
tutions than those of the North. This clime induces a languor 
favorable to resignation, and nature offers enough to console 
man for the advantages society denies. Undoubtedly, there is 
much corruption in Italy : its civilization is far from refinement. 
There is a savage wilderness beneath Italian cunning; it is that 
of a hunter lying in wait for his prey. Indolent people easily 
become sly and shifting ; their natural gentleness serves to hide 
even a fit of rage ; for it is by our habitual manner that an acci- 
dental change of feeling may be best concealed. Yet Ita- 
lians have both truth and constancy in their private connections. 
Interest may sway them, but not pride. Here is no ceremony, 
no fashion ; none of the little everyday tricks for creating a sen- 
sation. The usual sources of artifice and of envy exist not here. 
Foes and rivals are deceived by those who consider themselves at 
war with them ; but, while in peace, they act with honesty and 
candor. This is the .very cause of your complaint. Our women 
heft? of nothing but love ; they live in an atmosphere of seduction 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


103 


and dangerous example ; yet their frankness lends an innocence 
to gallantry itself. They have no fear of ridicule : many are so 
ignorant that they cannot even write, and confess it without scruple. 
They engage a Paglietto to answer letters for them, which he does 
on paper large enough for a petition ; but among the better classes 
you see professors from the academies in their black scarfs, giving 
lessons publicly. If you are inclined to laugh at them, they ask 
you : 4 Is there any harm in understanding Greek, or living by 
our own exertions ? How can you deride so matter-of-course a 
proceeding V Dare I, my Lord, touch on a more delicate 
subject? — the reason why our men so seldom display a military 
spirit. They readily expose their lives for love or hate : iu such 
causes, the wounds given and received neither astonish nor alarm 
their witnesses. Fearless of death, when natural passions com- 
mand them to defy it, they still, I must confess, value life above 
the political interests which slightly affect those who can scarcely 
be said to have a country, Chivalrous honor has little influence 
over a people among whom the opinions that nourish it are dead ; 
naturally enough, in such a disorganization of public affairs, 
women gain a great ascendency; perhaps too much so for them to 
respect or admire their lovers, who, nevertheless, treat them with 
the most delicate devotion. Domestic virtue constitutes the 
welfare and the pride of Englishwomen ; but on no land, where 
love dispenses with its sacred bonds, is the happiness of women 
watched over as in Italy. If our men cannot make a moral code 
for immorality, they are at least just and generous in their par- 
ticipation of cafes and duties. They consider themselves more 
culpable than their mistresses when they break their chains : they 
know that women make the heaviest sacrifice; and believe that, 
before the tribunal of the heart, the greatest criminals are those 
who have done most wrong. Men err from selfishness ; women, 
because they are weak. Whe^e society is at once vigorous and 
corrupt, that is, most merciless to the faults that are followed by 
the worst misfortunes, women of course are used with more seve- 
rity; but where we have no established etiquettes, natural charity 
bas a greater power. Spite all that has been said of Italian 


104 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

perfidy, I will assert that there is as much real good-nature here 
as in any other country of the world ; and that, slandered as it is 
by strangers, they will nowhere meet with a kinder reception. 
Italians are reproached as flatterers; it is with no premeditated 
plan, but in mere eagerness to please, that they lavish expres- 
sions of afiection, not often belied by their conduct. Would they 
be ever-faithful friends, if called on to prove so in danger or ad- 
versity ? — A very small number, I allow, might be capable of 
such friendship; but it is not to Italy alone that this observation 
is applicable. I have previously admitted their Oriental indo- 
lence. Yet the very women, who appear like so many beauties 
of a harem, may surprise you by traits of generosity or of 
revenge : as for the men, give them but an object, and, in six 
months, you might find that they would have learned and under- 
stood whatever was required of them; but, while they are 
untaught, why should females be instructed ? An Italian girl 
would soon become worthy of an intelligent husband, provided 
that she loved him ; but in a country where all great interests are 
suppressed, a careless repose is more noble than a vain agitation 
about trifles. Literature itself must languish, where thoughts are 
not renewed by vigorous and varied action. Yet in what land 
have arts and letters been more worshipped? History shows 
us, that the popes, princes, and people have at all times done 
homage to distinguished painters, sculptors, poets, and other 
writers. (15) This zeal was, I own, my Lord, one of the first 
motives which attached me to this country. I did not find 
here those seared imaginations, that discouraging spirit, nor that 
despotic mediocrity, which, elsewhere, can so soon stifle innùto 
ability. Here a felicitous phrase takes fire, as it were, among its 
auditors. As genius is the gift which ranks highest among us, 
it inevitably excites much envy. Peregolese was assassinated : 
Giorgione wore a cuirass, when obliged to paint in any public 
place; but the violent jealousy to which talent gives birth here, 
is such as in other realms is created by power; it seeks not 
to depreciate the object it can hate, or even kill, fpom the"very 
fanaticism of admiration. Finally, when we see so much life in 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


105 


ft circle so contracted, in the midst of so many obstacles and op- 
pressions, we can hardly forbear from a vivid solicitude for those 
who respire with such avidity the little air that fancy breathes 
through the boundaries which confine them. These are so limit- 
ed, that meu of our day can rarely acquire the pride and firm- 
ness which mark those of freer and more military states. I will 
even confess, if you desire it, my Lord, that such a national 
character must inspire a woman with more enthusiasm ; but is it 
not possible that a man may be brave, honorable, nay, unite 
all the attributes which can teach us to love, without possessing 
those that might promise us content ? 

u CORINNE.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

This letter revived all Oswald’s remorse at having even thought 
of detaching himself from his love. The commanding intellectual 
mildness of its reproof affected him deeply. A superiority so 
vast, so real, yet so simple, appeared to him out of all ordinary 
rule. He was never insensible that this was not the tender crea- 
ture his fancy had chosen for the partner of his life : all he re- 
membered of Lucy Edgarmond, at twelve years of age, better ac- 
corded with that ideal. Rut who could be compared with Corinne ? 
She was a miracle formed by nature, in his behalf, he dared be- 
lieve; since he might flatter himself that he was dear to her 
Yet what would be bis prospects if he declared his inclination to 
make her his wife ? Such, he thought, would be his decision ; 
yet the idea that her past life had not been entirely irreproachable, 
and that such a union would assuredly have been condemned by 
his father, again overwhelmed him with painful anxiety. He was 
not so subdued by grief as he had been ere he met Corinne; "but 
he no longer felt the calm which may accompany repentance, 
when a whole life is devoted to expiate our faults. Formerly, he 
did not fear yielding to his saddest memories, but now he dreaded 


106 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

the meditations which revealed to him the secrets of his heart. 
He was preparing to seek Corinne, to thank her for her letter, 
and obtain pardon for his own, when his apartment was suddenly 
entered by Mr. Edgarmond, the young Lucy's near relation. 

This gentleman had lived chiefly on his estate in Wales; he 
possessed just the principles and the prejudice that serve to keep 
things as they are ; and this is an advantage where things are as 
well arranged as human reason permits. In such a case, the par- 
tisans of established order, even though stubbornly bigoted to 
their own ways of thinking, deserve to be regarded as rational 
and enlightened men 

Lord Nevil shuddered as this name was announced. All the 
past seemed to rise before him in an instant ; and his next idea 
was, that Lady Edgarmond, the mother of Lucy, had charged her 
kinsman with reproaches. This thought restored his self-command ; 
be received his countryman with excessive coldness ; though not 
a single aim of the good man's journey concerned our hero. He 
was travelling for his health, exercising himself in the chase, and 
drinking “ Success to King George and old England !" He was 
one of the best fellows in the world, with more wit and education 
than would have been supposed ; ultra-English, even on points 
where it would have been advisable to be less so ; keeping up, in 
all countries, the habit of his own, and avoiding their natives, not 
from contempt, but a reluctance to speak in foreign tongues, and 
a timidity which, at the age of fifty, rendered him extremely shy 
of new acquaintance. 

“I am delighted to see you," he said to Nevil, “I go to 
Naples in a fortnight : shall I find you there ? I wish I may ! 
having but little time to stay in Italy, as my regiment embarks 
shortly." “ Your regiment !" repeated Oswald, coloring, not that 
he had forgotten that, having a year’s leave of absence, his pre- 
sence would not be so soon required ; but he blushed to think 
that Corinne might banish even duty from his mind. “ Your 
corps," continued Mr. Edgarmond, “ will leave you more leisure 
for the quiet necessary to restore your strength. Just before I 
left England, I saw a little cousin of mine in whom you are in 


107 


CORINNE; OR, IÎALŸ. 

terested : she is a charming girl ! and, by the time you return, next 
year, I don't doubt that she will be the finest woman in England." 
Nevil was silent, and Mr. Edgarmond too. For some time after 
this, they addressed each other very laconically, though with kind 
politeness, and the guest rose to depart; but, turning from the 
door, said, abruptly, “ Apropos, my Lord, you can do me a favor. 
I am told that you know the celebrated Corinne ; and, though ] 
generally shrink from foreigners, I am really curious to see her." 
“ I will ask her permission to take you to her house, then," re- 
plied Oswald. “ Do, I beg : let me see her, some day when she 
extemporises, dances, and sings." “ Corinne," returned Nevil* 
u does not thus display her accomplishments before strangers : she 
is every way your equal and mine." 11 Forgive my mistake," cried 
his friend ; “ but as she is merely called Corinne, and, at six-and- 
twenty, lives unprotected by any one of her family, I thought that 
she subsisted by her talents, and might gladly seize any oppor- 
tunity of making them known." “ Her fortune is independent," 
replied Oswald, hastily ; “ her mind still more so." Mr. Edgar- 
mond regretted that he had mentioned her, seeing that the topic 
interested Lord Nevil. 

No people on earth deal more considerately with true affections 
than do the English. He departed ; Oswald remained alone, ex- 
claiming to himself : u I ought to marry Corinne ! I must secure 
her against future misinterpretation. I will offer her the little I 
can, rank and name, in return for the felicity which she alone can 
grant me." In this mood, full of hope and love, he hastened to 
her house : yet, by a natural impulse of diffidence, began by re- 
assuring himself with conversation on indifferent themes : among 
them was the request of Mr. Edgarmond, She was evidently dis- 
composed by that name, and, in a trembling voice, refused bis 
visit. Oswald was greatly astonished. “ I should have thought 
that with you, who receive so much company," he said, “ the title 
of my friend would be no motive for exclusion." — “ Do not be 
offended , my Lord," she said ; “ believe me, I must have power- 
ful reasons for denying any wish of yours." — “ Will you tell mo 
those reasons ?" he asked. “ Impossible !" she answered. “ Rs 


108 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

it so, then,” he articulated. The vehemence of his feelings 
checked his speech ; he would have left her, but Corinne, through 
her tears, exclaimed in English : “ For God’s sake stay, if you 
would not break my heart !” 

These words and accents thrilled Nevil to the soul ; he reseated 
himself at some distance from her, leaning his head against an 
alabaster vase, and murmuring : “ Cruel woman ! you see I love 
you, and am twenty times a day ready to offer you my hand ; yet 
you will not tell me who you are, Corinne ! Tell me now !” — 
« Oswald,” she sighed, “ you know not how you pain me : were 
I rash enough to obey, you would cease to love me ” — u Great 
God !” he cried, “ what have you to reveal ?”-—-' “ Nothing that 
renders me unworthy of you : but do not exact it. Some day, per- 
haps, when you love me better — if — ah ! I know not what I say 
— you shall know all, but do not abandon me unheard. Promise 
it in the name of your now sainted father !” 

“ Name him not !” raved Oswald. u Know you if he would 
unite or part us ? If you believe he would consent, say so, and I 
shall surmount this anguish. I will one day tell you the sad story 
of my life ; but now, behold the state to which you have reduced 
me !” 

Cold dews stood on his pale brow; his trembling lips could 
utter no more. Corinne seated herself beside him ; and, holding 
his hands in hers tenderly, recalled him to himself. “ My dear 
Oswald ?” she said, ask Mr. Edgarmond if he was ever in North- 
umberland ; or, at least, if he has been there only within the last 
five years : if so, you may bring him hither.” Oswald gazed fixedly 
on her ; she cast down her eyes in silence. u I will do what you 
desire,” he said, and departed. Secluded in his chamber, he ex. 
hausted his conjectures on the secrets of Corinne. It appeared 
evident that she had passed some time in England, and that her 
family name must be known there ! but what was her motive for 
concealment, and why had she left his country ? He was convinced 
that no stain could attach to her life ; but he feared that a com- 
bination of circumstances might have made her seem blamable 
in the eyes of others. He was aimed against the disapproba 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


109 


tion of every country save England. The memory of his father 
was so entwined with that of his native land, that each sentiment 
strengthened the other. Oswald learned from Edgarmond tha* 
he had visited Northumberland for the first time a year ago; and 
therefore promised to introduce him at Corinne’s that evening 
He was the first to arrive there, in order to warn her against the 
misconceptions of his friend, and beg her, by a cold reserve of 
manner, to show him how much he was deceived. 

“ If you permit me,” she observed, u I would rather treat him 
as I do every one else. If he wishes to hear the improvisatrice, 
he shall ; I will show myself to him such as I am ; for I think 
he will as easily perceive my rightful pride through this simple 
conduct, as if I behaved with an affected constraint .” — u You are 
right, Corinne,” said Oswald : u how wrong were he who would 
attempt to change you from your admirable self!” The rest of 
the party now joined them. Nevil placed himself near his love, 
with an added air of deference, rather to command that of others 
than to satisfy himself; he had soon the joy of finding this effort 
needless. She captivated Edgarmond, not only by hei charms 
and conversation, but by inspiring that esteem which sterling 
characters, however contrasted, naturally feel for each other ; and 
when he ventured on asking her to extemporise for him, he 
aspired to this honor with the most revering earnestness. She 
consented without delay ; for she knew how to give her favors a 
value beyond that of difficult attainment. She was anxious to 
please the countryman of Nevil — a man whose report of her ought 
to have some weight — but these thoughts occasioned her so sud- 
den a tremor, that she knew not how to begin. Oswald, grieved 
that she should not shine her best before an Englishman, turned 
away his eyes, in obvious embarrassment; and Corinne, thinking 
of no one but himself, lost all her presence of mind ; nor ideas, 
nor even words, were at her call ; and, suddenly giving up the 
attempt, she said to Mr. Edgarmond, “ Forgive me, sir; fear robs 
me of all power. ’ Tis the first time, my friends know, that I was 
ever thus beside myself ; but,” she added, with a sigh, “ it may 
not be the last.” 

10 


110 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Till now, Oswald had seen her genius triumph over her affec- 
tions; but now feeling had entirely subdued her mind; yet so 
identified was he with her glory, that he suffered beneath this 
failure, instead of enjoying it. Certain, however, that she would 
excel on a future interview with his friend, he gave himself up to 
the sweet pledge of his own power which he had just received; 
and the image of his beloved reigned more securely in his heart 
than ever. 


BOOK VII. 

ITALIAN LITERATURE. 


CHAPTER I. 

Lord Nevil was very desirous that Mr. Edgarmond should 
partake the conversation of Corinne, which far surpassed her im- 
provised verses. On the following day, the same party assembled 
at her house ; and, to elicit her remarks, he turned the discourse 
on Italian literature, provoking her natural vivacity by affirming 
that England could boast a greater number of true poets than 
Italy. “ In the first place,” said Corinne, “ foreigners usually 
know none but our first-rale poets : Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio ; but we have many others, such 
as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, and Parini, without reckoning San- 
nazer Politian, who wrote in Latin. All their verses are harmo- 
niously colored ; all more or less knew how to introduce the won- 
ders of nature and art into their verbal pictures. Doubtless they 
want the melancholy grandeur of your bards, and their knowledge 
of the human heart ; but does not this kind of superiority become 
the philosopher better than the poet ? The brilliant melody of 
our language is rather adapted to describe external objects than 
abstract meditation ; it is more competent to depict fury than 
sadness; for reflection calls for metaphysical expressions; while 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Ill 


revenge excites the fancy, and banishes the thought of grief. 
Cesarotti has translated Ossian in the most elegant manner : but 
in reading him, we feel that his words are in themselves too joyous 
for the gloomy ideas they would recall ; we yield to the charm of 
our soft phrases, as to the murmur of waves or the tints of flowers. 
What more would you exact of poetry ? If you ask the nightin- 
gale the meaning of his song, he can explain but by recommencing 
it ; we can only appreciate its music by giving way to the impres- 
sion it makes on us. Our measured lines, with rapid termina- 
tions, composed of two brief syllables, glide along as their name 
(, Sdruccioli ) denotes, sometimes imitating the light steps of a 
dance; sometimes, with graver tone, realizing the tumult of a 
tempest, or the clash of arms. Our poetry is a wonder of imagi- 
nation : you ought not in it to seek for every species of pleasure/’ 
— “I admit/’ returned Nevil, “that you account as well as pos- 
sible for the beauties and defects of your national poetry; but 
when these faults, without these graces, are found in prose, how 
can you defend it ? what is but vague in the one becomes un- 
meaning in the other. The crowd of common ideas, that your 
poets embellish by melody and by figures, is served up cold in 
your prose, with the most fatiguing pertinacity. The greatest 
portion of your present prose writers use a language so declama- 
tory, so diffuse, so abounding in superlatives, that one would think 
they all dealt out the same accepted phrases by word of command, 
or by a kind of convention. Their style is a tissue, a piece of 
mosaic. They possess in its highest* degree the art of inflating an 
idea, or frothing up a sentiment ; one is tempted to ask them a 
similar question to that put by the negress to the Frenchwoman, 
in the days of hoop-petticoats, 1 Pray, Madam, is all that yourself?’ 
Now, how much is real beneath this pomp of words, which one true 
expression might dissipate like an idle dream?” — “ You forget,” 
interrupted Corinne, “ first Machiavel and Boccaccio, then Gravina, 
Filangieri, and even, in our own days, Cesarotti, Yerri, Bettinelli, 
and many others, who knew both how to write and how to 
think. (16) I agree with you, that, for the last century or two, 
unhappy circumstances having deprived Italy of her independence 


112 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


all zeal for truth has been so lost, that it is often impossible tc 
speak it in any way. The result is, a habit of resting content 
with words, and never daring to approach a thought. Authors, 
too sure that they can effect no change in the state of things, write 
but to show their wit — the surest way of soon concluding with no 
wit at all ; for it is only by directing our efforts to a nobly useful 
aim that we can augment our stock of ideas. When writers can do 
nothing for the welfare of their country; when, indeed, their means 
constitute their end ; from leading to no better, they double in a 
thousand windings, without advancing one step. The Italians 
are afraid of new ideas, rather because they are indolent than 
from literary servility. By nature they have much originality ; 
but they give themselves no time to reflect. Their eloquence, so 
vivid in conversation, chills as they work; besides this, the 
Southerns feel hampered by prose, and can only express them- 
selves fully in verse. It is not thus with French literature,” 
added Corinne to d’Erfeuil : “ your prose writers are often more 
poetical than your versifiers.” — “ That is a truth established by 
classic authorities,” replied the Count. “Bossuet, La Bruyère, 
Montesquieu, and Buffon can never be surpassed; especially the 
first two, who belonged to the age of Louis XIY. ; they are per- 
fect models for all to imitate who can ; — a hint as important to 
foreigners as to ourselves.” — “I can hardly think,” returned 
Corinne, “ that it were desirable for distinct countries to lose their 
peculiarities ; and I dare to tell you, Count, that, in your own 
kind, the national orthodoxy which opposes all felicitous innova- 
tions must render your literature very barren. Genius is essen- 
tially creative; it bears the character of the individual who 
possesses it. Nature, who permits no two leaves to be exactly 
alike, has given a still greater diversity to human minds. Imi- 
tation, then, is a double murder ; for it deprives both copy and 
original of their primitive existence.”— “Would you wish us” 
asked d Erfeuil, “to admit such Gothic barbarisms as Young’s 
‘Night Thoughts/ or the Spanish and Italian Concetti T What 
would become of our tasteful and elegant style after such a mix- 
ture ?” The Prince Castel Forte now remarked : “ I think the* 


113 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

ire all are in want of each other’s aid. The literature of every 
country offers a new sphere of ideas to those familiar with it. 
Charles Y. said : ‘ The man who understands four languages is 
worth four men.’ What that great Genius applied to politics is 
as true in the state of letters. Most foreigners understand 
French ; their views, therefore, are more extended than those of 
Frenchmen, who know no language but their own. Why do they 
not oftener learn other tongues ? They would preserve what dis- 
tinguishes themselves, and might acquire some things in which 
they still are wanting.” 


CHAPTER II. 

(( You will confess, at least,” replied the Count, “ that there is 
one department in which we have nothing to learn from any one. 
Our theatre is decidedly the first in Europe. I cannot suppose 
that the English themselves would think of placing their Shak- 
speare above us.” — “Pardon me, they do think of it,” answered 
Mr. Edgarmond; and, having said this, resumed his previous 
silence. “ Oh !” exclaimed the Count, with civil contempt ; “ let 
every man think as he pleases ; but I persist in believing that, 
without presumption, we may call ourselves the highest of all 
dramatic artists. As for the Italians, if I may speak frankly, 
they are in doubt whether there is such an art in the world. Mu- 
sic is everything with them ; the piece nothing : if a second act 
possesses a better scena than the first, they begin with that ; nay, 
they will play portions of different operas on the same night, and 
between them an act from some prose comedy, containing nothing 
but moral sentences, such as our ancestors turned over to the use 
of other countries, as worn too threadbare for their own. Your 
famed musicians do what they will with your poets. One won’t 
sing a certain air, unless the word Felicità be introduced; the 
tenor demands his Tomba ; a third can’t shake unless is 
Catene. The poor poet must do his best to harmonize these varied 
10 * 


CORINNE; OR, .ITALY. 

tastes with his dramatic situations. Nor is this the worst : some 
of them will not deign to walk on the stage; they must appear 
surrounded by clouds, or descend from the top of a palace stair- 
case, in order to give their entrance due effect. Let an air be 
sung in ever so tender or so furious a passage, the actor must 
needs bow his thanks for the applause it draws down. In Semi- 
ramis, the other night, the spectre of Ninus paid his respects to the 
pit with an obsequiousness quite neutralizing the awe his costume 
should have created. In Italy, the theatre is looked on merely as 
a rendezvous, where you need listen to nothing but the songs and 
the ballet. I may well say they listen to the ballet, for they are 
never quiet till after its commencement ; in itself it is the chef- 
d'œuvre of bad taste ; I know not what there is to amuse in your 
ballet beyond its absurdity. I have seen Gengis Khan, clothed 
in ermine and magnanimity, give up his crown to the child of his 
conquered rival, and lift him into the air upon his foot, a new way 
of raising a monarch to the throne ; I have seen the self-devotion 
of Curtius, in three acts, full of divertissements. The hero, dressed 
like an Arcadian shepherd, had a long dance with his mistress, 
ere he mounted a real horse upon the stage, and threw himself 
into a fiery gulf, lined with orange satin and gold paper. In fact 
l have seen an abridgement of the Roman history, turned into 
bullets, from Romulus down to Cæsar.” — “All that is very true,” 
mildly replied the Prince of Castel Forte ; “ but you speak only of 
our Opera, which is in no country considered the dramatic thea- 
tre.” — “ Oh, it is still worse when they represent tragedies, or dra- 
mas not included under the head of those with happy catastrophes ; 
they crowd more horrors into five acts than human imagination 
ever conceived. In one of these, pieces a lover kills his mistress’ 
brother, and burns her brains before the audience. The fourth act 
is occupied by the funeral, and ere the fifth begins, the lover, with 
the utmost composure, gives out the next night’s harlequinade ; 
then resumes his character, in order to end the play by shooting 
himself. The tragedians are perfect counterparts of the cold ex- 
aggerations in wh;oh they perform, committing the greatest atro- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


115 


cities with the most exemplary indifference. If an actor becomes 
impassioned, he is called a preacher, so much more emotion is be- 
trayed it the pulpit than on the stage ; and it is lucky that these 
heroes are so peacefully pathetic, since as there is nothing inte- 
resting in your plays, the more fuss they made, the more ridicu- 
lous they would become : it were well if they were divertingly so ; 
but it is all too monotonous to laugh at. Italy has neither tragedy 
nor comedy ; the only drama truly her own is the harlequinade. 

A thievish, cowardly glutton ; an amorous or avaricious old dupe 
of a guardian, are the materials. You will own that such inven- 
tions cost no very great efforts, and that the * Tartuffe’ and the 
1 Misanthrope’ called for some exertion of genius.” This attack , 
displeased the Italians, though they laughed at it. In conversa- 
tion the Count preferred displaying his wit to his good-humor. 
Natural benevolence prompted his actions, but self-love his words. 
Castel Forte and others longed to refute his accusations, but they 
thought the cause would be better defended by Corinne; and as 
they rarely sought to shine themselves, they were content, after 
citing such names as Maffei, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, and 
Monti, with begging her to answer Monsieur d’Erfeuii. Co- 
rinne agreed with him that the Italians had no national theatre ; 
but she sought to prove that circumstances, and not want of talent, 
had caused this deficiency. “ Comedy,” she said, u as depending 
on observation of manners, can only exist in a country accustomed 
to a great varied population. Italy is animated by violent passions 
or effeminate enjoyments. Such passions give birth to crimes that 
confound all shades of character. But that ideal comedy, which 
suits all times, all countries, was invented here. Harlequin, pan- 
taloon, and clown are to be found in every piece of that description. 
Everywhere they have rather masks than faces ; that is, they wear 
the physiognomy of their class, and not of individuals. Doubtless 
our modern authors found these parts all made to their hands, 

' like the pawns of a chess-board ; but these fantastic creations, 
which, from one end of Europe to the other, still amuse not only 
children, but men whom fancy renders childish, surely give tho 
Italians some claim on the art of comedy. Observation of the 


116 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY . 


human heart is an inexhaustible source of literature ; but nations 
rather romantic than reflective yield themselves more readily to 
the delirium of joy than to philosophic satire. Something of sad- 
ness lurks beneath the pleasantry founded on a knowledge of man- 
kind : the most truly inoffensive gayety is that which is purely 
imaginative. Not that Italians do not shrewdly study tnose with 
whom they are concerned. They detect the most private thoughts > 
as subtly as others ; but they are not wont to make a literary use 
of the acuteness which marks their conduct. Perhaps they are re- 
luctant to generalize and to publish their discoveries. Prudence 
may forbid their wasting on mere plays what may serve to guide 
their behavior, or converting into witty fictions that which they 
find so useful in real life. Nevertheless, Machiavel, who has made 
known all the secrets of criminal policy, may serve to show of what- 
terrible sagacity the Italian mind is capable. Goldoni, who lived 
in Venice, where society is at its best, introduced more observation 
into his work than is commonly found. Yet his numerous comedies 
want variety both of character and situation. They seem modelled, 
not on life, but on the generality of theatrical pieces. Irony is 
not the true character of Italian wit. It is Ariosto, and not Mo- 
lière, who can amuse us here. Gozzi, the rival of Goldoni, had 
much more irregular originality. He gave himself up freely to 
his genius; mingling buffoonery with magic, imitating nothing in 
nature, but dealing with those fairy chimeras that bear the mind 
beyond the boundaries of this world. He had a prodigious suc- 
cess in his day, and perhaps is the best specimen of Italian comic 
fancy ; but, to ascertain what our tragedy and comedy might be- 
come, they must be allowed a theatre, and a company. A host of 
small towns dissipate the few resources that might be collected. 
That division of states, usually so favorable to public welfare, is 
destructive of it here. We want a centre of light and power, to 
pierce the mists of surrounding prejudice. The authority of a go- 
vernment would be a blessing, if it contended with the ignorance 
of men, isolated among themselves, in separate province, and, 
by awakening emulation, gave life to a people now conter frith a 
dream/' 


CORINNE J OR, ITALY. 


117 


These and other discussions were spiritedly put forth by 
Corinne ; she equally understood the art of that light and rapid 
style, which insists on nothing; in her wish to please, adopting 
each by turns, though frequently abandoning herself to the talent 
which had rendered her so celebrated as an improvisatrice. 
Often did she call on Castel Forte to support her opinions by 
his own ; but she spoke so well, that all her auditors listened with 
delight, and could not have endured an interruption. Mr. Ed- 
garmond, above all, could never have wearied of seeing and hearing 
her : he hardly dared explain to himself the admiration she ex- 
cited; and whispered some words of praise, trusting that she 
would understand, without obliging him to repeat them. He 
felt, however, so anxious to hear her sentiments on tragedy, that, 
in spite of his timidity, he risked the question. u Madame,” he 
said, “ it appears to me that tragedies are what your literature 
wants most. I think that yours come less near an equality with 
our own, than children do to men ; for childish sensibility, if light, 
is genuine; while your serious dramas are so stilted and unna- 
tural, that they stifle all emotion. Am I not right, my Lord ?” 
he added, turning his eyes towards Nevil, with an appeal for 
assistance, and astonished at himself for having dared to say so 
much before so large a party. — “ I think just as you do,” returned 
Oswald : “ Metastasio, whom they vaunt as the bard of love, gives 
that passion the same coloring in all countries and situations. 
His songs, indeed, abound with grace, harmony, and lyric beauty, 
especially when detached from the dramas to which they belong; 
but it is impossible for us, whose Shakspeare is indisputably the 
poet who has most profoundly fathomed the depths of human 
passions, to bear with the fond pairs who fill nearly all the scenes 
of Metastasio, and, whether called Achilles or Thyrsis, Brutus or 
Corilas, all sing in the same strain, the martyrdom they endure, 
and depict, as a species of insipid idiotcy, the most stormy im- 
pulse that can wreck the heart of man. It is with real respect 
for Alfieri that I venture a few comments on his works, their aim 
is so noble ! The sentiments of the author so well accord with 
the life of the man, that his tragedies ought always to be praised 


118 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


as so many great actions, even though they may be criticized in a 
literary sense. It strikes me, that some of them have a monotony 
in their vigor, as Metastasio’s have in their sweetness. Alfieri 
gives us such a profusion of energy and worth, or such an exag- 
geration of violence and guilt, that it is impossible to recognize 
one human being among his heroes. Men are never either so 
vile or so generous as he describes them. The object is to contrast 
vice with 'virtue; but these contrasts lack the gradations of truth. 
If tyrants were obliged to put up with half he makes their victims 
say to their faces, one would really feel tempted to pity them. 
In the tragedy of * Octavia/ this outrage of probability is most 
apparent. Seneca lectures Nero, as if the one were the bravest, 
and the other the most patient of men. The master of the world 
allows himself to be insulted, and put in a rage, scene after scene, 
as if it were not in his own power to end all this by a single 
word. It is certain, that, in these continual dialogues, Seneca 
utters maxims which one might pride to hear in a harangue or 
read in a dissertation; but is this the way to give an idea of 
tyranny ? — instead of investing it with terror, to set it up as a 
block against which to tilt with wordy weapons ! Had Shaks- 
peare represented Nero surrounded by trembling slaves, who 
scarce dared answer the most indifferent question, himself vainly 
endeavoring to appear at ease, and Seneca at his side, composing 
the Apology for Agrippina's murder, would not our horror have 
been a thousand times more great? and, for one reflection made 
by the author, would not millions have arisen, in the spectator's 
mind, from the silent rhetoric of so true a picture?” Oswald 
might have spoken much longer ere Corinne would have inter- 
rupted him, so fascinated was she by the sound of his voice, and 
the turn of his expressions. Scarce could she remove her gaze 
from his countenance, even when he ceased to speak ; then, as 
her friends eagerly asked what she thought of Italian tragedy, she 
answered by addressing herself to Nevil.— “ My lord, I so entirely 
agree with you, that it is not as a disputant I reply; but to make 
some exceptions to your, perhaps, too general rules. It is true 
that Metastasio is rather a lyric than a dramatic poet; and that 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


119 


he depicts love rather as one of the fine arts that embellish life, 
than as the secret source of our deepest joys and sorrows. 
Although our poetry has been chiefly devoted to love, I will 
hazard the assertion that we have more truth and power in our 
portraitures of every other passion. For amatory themes, a kind 
of conventional style has been formed amongst us ; and poets are 
inspired by what they have read, not by their own feelings. Love 
as it is in Italy, bears not the slightest resemblance to love such 
as our authors describe. 

“I know but one romance, the ‘Fiammetta’ of Boccaccio, in 
which the passion is attired in its truly national colors. Italian 
love is a deep and rapid impression, more frequently betrayed by 
the silent ardor of our deeds, than by ingenious and highly wrought 
language. Our literature, in general, bears but a faint stamp of 
cur manners. We are too humbly modest to found tragedies on 
our own history, or fill them with our own emotions. (17) Alfieri, 
by a singular chance, was transplanted from antiquity into mo- 
dern times. He was born for action ; yet permitted but to write : 
his style resented this restraint. He wished by a literary road to 
reach a political goal; a noble one, but such as spoils all works of 
fancy. He was impatient of living among learned writers and 
enlightened readers, who, nevertheless, cared for nothing serious; 
but amused themselves with madrigals and pouvellettes. Alfieri 
sought to give his tragedies a more austere character. He re- 
trenched everything that could interfere with the interest of his 
dialogue ; as if determined to make his countrymen do penance 
for their natural vivacity. Yet he was much admired : because 
he was truly great, and because the inhabitants of Home applaud 
all praise bestowed on the ancient Homans, as if it belonged to 
themselves. They are amateurs of virtue, as of the pictures their 
galleries possess; but Alfieri has not created anything that may 
bo called the Italian drama ; that is, a school of tragedy, in which 
a nrêrit peculiar to Italy may be* found. He has not even charac- 
terized the manners of the times and countries he selected. His 
< Pazzi/ 1 Virginia/ and ‘ Philip II/ are replete with powerful and 
elevated thought; but you everywhere find the impress of Alfieri, 


120 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

not that of the scene nor of the period assumed. Widely as he 
differs from all French authors in most respects, he resembles 
them in the habit of painting every subject he touches with the 
hues of his own mind.” At this allusion, d’Erfeuil observed : u It 
would be impossible for us to brook on our stage either the insig- 
nificance of the Grecians, or the monstrosities of Shakspeare. 
The French have too much taste. Our drama stands alone for 
elegance and delicacy : to introduce anything foreign, were to 
plunge us into barbarism.” — “ You would as soon think of sur- 
rounding France with the great wall of China !” said Corinne, 
smiling : a yet the rare beauties of your tragic authors would be 
better developed, if you would sometimes permit others besides 
Frenchmen to appear in their scenes. But we, poor Italians, 
would lose much, by confining ourselves to rules that must confer 
on us less honor than constraint. The national character ought 
to form the national theatre. We love the fine arts, music, 
scenery, even pantomime; all, in fact, that strikes our senses, 
low, then, can a drama, of which eloquence is the best charm, 
intent us ? In vain did Alfieri strive to reduce us to this ; he 
himself felt that his system was too rigorous. (18) His ‘ Saul/ 
Maffei’s 1 Merope/ Monti’s 1 Aristodemus/ above all, the poetry of 
Dante (though he never wrote a tragedy), seem to give the best 
notion of what the dramatic art might become here. In * Merope’ 
the action is simple, but the language glorious; why should such 
style be interdicted in our plays ? Yerse becomes so magnificent 
in Italian, that we ought to be the last people to renounce its 
beauty. Alfieri, who, when he pleased, could excel in every way, 
has in his ‘ Saul’ made superb use of lyric poetry ; and, indeed, 
music itself might there be very happily introduced ; not to in- 
terrupt the dialogue, but to calm the fury of the king, by the harp 
of David. We possess such delicious music, as may well inebriate 
all mental power; we ought, therefore, instead of separating, to 
unite these attributes; not by making our heroes sing, whick*de- 
stroys their dignity, but by choruses, like those of the ancients, 
connected by natural links with the main situation, as often hap- 
pens in real life. Far from rendering the Italian drama lesa 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 121 

imaginative, I think we ought in every way to increase the 
illusive pleasure of the audience. Our lively taste for music, 
ballet and spectacle, is a proof of powerful fancy, and a ne- 
cessity to interest ourselves incessantly, even in thus sporting 
with serious images, instead of rendering them more severe 
than they need be, as did Alfieri. We think it our duty to 
applaud whatever is grave and majestic, but soon return to 
our natural tastes; and are satisfied with any tragedy, so it 
be embellished by that variety which the English and Span- 
iards so highly appreciate. Monti’s ‘Aristodemus’ partakes the 
terrible pathos of Dante; and has surely a just title to our 
pride- Dante, so versatile a master-spirit, possessed a tragic 
genius, which would have produced a grand effect, if he could 
have adapted it to the stage : he knew how to set before the eye 
whatever passed in the soul ; he made us not only feel but look 
upon despair. Had he written plays, they must have affected 
young and old, the many as well as the few. Dramatic literature 
must be in some way popular ; a whole nation constitute its judges.” 
— “ Since the time of Dante,” said Oswald, “ Italy has played a 
great political part — ere it can boast a national tragic school, great 
events must call forth, in real life, the emotions which become the 
stage. Of all literary chef s-d’ œuvres, a tragedy most thoroughly 
belongs to a whole people : the author’s genius is matured by the 
public spirit of his audience ; by the government and manners of 
his country ; by all, in fact, which recurs each day to the mind, 
forming the moral being, even as the air we breathe invigorates 
our physical life. The Spaniards, whom you resemble in climate 
and in creed, have nevertheless, far more dramatic talent. Their 
pieces are drawn from their history, their chivalry, and religious 
faith ; they are original and animated. Their success in this way 
may restore them to their former fame as a nation ; but how can 
we found in Italy a style of tragedy which she has never pos- 
sessed?” — “I have better hopes, my Lord,” returned Corinne, 
“ from the soaring spirits that are among us, though unfavored as 
yet by circumstances ; but what we most need is histrionic ability. 
Affected language induces false declamation ; yet there is no tongue 
11 


122 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


in which a great actor could evince more potency than in our 
own; for melodious sounds lend an added charm to just accentu- 
ation, without robbing it of its force.” — “If you would convince 
us of this,” interrupted Castel Forte, “ do so, by giving us the 
inexpressible pleasure of seeing you in tragedy ; you surely con- 
sider your foreign friends worthy of witnessing the talent which 
you monopolize in Italy; and in which (as your own soul is pe- 
culiarly expressed in it) you can have no superior on earth .” 

Corinne secretly desired to perform before Oswald, and thus 
appear to the best advantage ; but she could not consent without 
his approval : her looks requested it. He understood them ; and> 
ambitious that she should charm Mr. Edgarmond in a manner 
which her yesterday’s timidity had prevented, he joined his soli- 
citations to those of her other guests. She hesitated no longer. 
— “Well, then/’ she said to Castel Forte, “we will, if you please,' 
accomplish a long-formed scheme of mine, that of playing my 
translation of ‘ Romeo and Juliet.’” — “What!” exclaimed Ed- 
garmond, “ Do you understand English and love Shakspeare ?” — 
“As a friend,” she replied. — “And you will play Juliet in Italian ? 
and I shall hear you ? and you, too, dear Nevil ! How happy you 
will be !” Then, instantly repenting his indiscretion, he blushed. 
The blush of delicacy and kindness is at all ages interesting. — 
“ How happy we shall be,” he added with embarrassment, “ if we 
may be present at such a mental banquet !” 


CHAPTER III. 

All was arranged in a few days ; parts distributed, the night 
fixed on, and the palace of a relative of Prince Castel Forte 
devoted to the representation. Oswald felt at once disquiet 
and delight; he enjoyed Corinne’s success, by anticipation; but 
even thus grew jealous, beforehand, of no one man in particu- 
lar, but of the public, who would witness an excellence of which 
b*e felt as if he alone had a right to be aware. He would h&v# 


T AL Y. 


12â 


CORINNE; OR, x 

had Corinne reserve her charms for him, and appear to others as 
timid as an Englishwoman. However distinguished a man may 
be, he rarely feels unqualified pleasure in the superiority of a wo- 
man. If he does not love her, his self-esteem takes offence; if 
he does, his heart is oppressed by it. Beside Corinne, Oswald 
was rather intoxicated than happy : the admiration she excited 
increased his passion, without giving stability to his intents. She 
was a phenomenon every day new ; but the very wonder she in- 
spired seemed to lessen his hopes of domestic tranquillity. She 
was, notwithstanding, so gentle, so easy to live with, that she 
might have been beloved for her lowliest attributes, independent 
of all others ; yet it was by these others that she had become re- 
markable. Lord Nevil, with all his advantages, thought himself 
beneath her, and doubted the duration of their attachment. In 
vain did she make herself his slave : the conqueror was too much 
in awe of his captive queen to enjoy his realm in peace. Some 
hours before the performance, Nevil led her to the house of the 
Princess, where the theatre had been fitted up. The sun shone 
beautifully; and at one of the staircase windows, which com- 
manded a view of Home and the Campagna, he paused a moment, 
saying : “ Behold, how heaven itself lights you to victory !” — 
“ It is to you, who point out its favor, that I owe such protection, 
then,” she replied. “ Tell me,” he added, “ do the pure emotions 
kindled by the sweetness of nature suffice to please you ? Remem- 
ber, this is a very different air from that you will respire in the 
tumultuous hall which soon will re-echo your name ?” — “ Oswald,” 
she said, “ if I obtain applause, will it not be because you hear it 
that it may touch my heart ? If I display any talent, is it not my 
love for you that inspires me ? Poetry, religion, all enthusiastic 
feelings, are in harmony with nature ; and while gazing on the 
azure sky, while yielding to the reverie it creates, I understand 
better than ever the sentiments of Juliet, I become more worthy 
of Romeo.” — “Yes, thou art worthy of him, celestial creature !” 
cried Nevil : “this jealous wish to be alone with thee in the uni- 
verse, is, I own, a weakness. Go ! receive the homage of the 
world ! but be thy love, which is more divine even than thy genius, 


124 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

directed to none but me !” They parted, and Oswald took bis place, 
awaiting her appearance on the stage. In Verona, the tomb of 
Borneo and Juliet is still shown. Shakspeare has written this play 
with truly southern fancy ; at once impassioned and vivacious; 
triumphant in delight; and rushing from voluptuous felicity to 
despair and death. Its sudden love, we feel, from the first, will 
never be effaced; for the force of nature, beneath a burning clime, 
and not habitual fickleness, gives it birth. The sun is not capri- 
cious, though the vegetation be rapid; and Shakspeare, better 
than any other foreign poet, knew how to seize the national cha- 
racter of Italy — that fertility of mind which invents a thousand 
varied expressions for the same emotion ; that Oriental eloquence 
which borrows images from all nature, to clothe the sensations of 
young hearts. In Ossian, one chord constantly replies to the thrill 
of sensibility ; but in Shakspeare nothing is cold nor same. A 
sunbeam divided and reflected in a thousand varied ways, produces 
endlessly multiplied tints, all telling of the light and heat from 
whence they are derived. Thus “Borneo and Juliet,” translated 
into Italian, seems but resuming its own mother-tongue. 

The first meeting of the lovers is at a ball given by the Capu- 
lets, mortal enemies of the Montagues. Corinne was charmingly 
attired, her tresses mixed with gems and flowers; and at first 
sight scarce appeared herself : her voice, however, was soon recog- 
nised, as was her face, though now almost deified by poetic fire. 
Unanimous applause rang through the house as she appeared. 
Her first look discovered Oswald, and rested on him, sparkling 
with hope and love. The gazers’ hearts beat with rapture and 
with fear, as if beholding happiness too great to last on earth. 
But was it for Corinne to realize such a presentiment ? When 
Borneo drew near, to whisper his sense of her grace and beauty, 
in lines so glowing in English, so magnificent in Italian, the spec- 
tators, transported at being thus interpreted, fully entered into the 
passion whose hasty dawn appeared more than excusable. Oswald 
became all uneasiness; he felt as if every man was ready to pro- 
claim her an angel among women, to challenge him on what ho 
felt for her, to dispute his rights, and tear her from his arms- A 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


123 


dazzling cloud passed before his eyes ; he feared that he should 
faint, and concealed himself behind a pillar. Corinne’s eyes anx- 
iously sought him, and with so deep a tone did she pronounce — 

“ Too early seen unknown, and known too late!” 

that he trembled as if she applied these words to their personal 
situation. He renewed his gaze on her dignified and natural ges- 
tures, her countenance which spoke more than words could tell, 
those mysteries of the heart which must ever remain inexplicable 
and yet forever decide our fate. The accents, the looks, the least 
movements of a truly sensitive actor, reveal the depths of the 
human breast. The ideal of the fine arts always mingles with 
these revelations; the harmony of verse and the charm of attitude 
lending to passion the grace and majesty it so often wants in real 
life — it is here seen through the medium of imagination, without 
losing aught of its truth. 

In the second act, Juliet has an interview with Romeo from a 
balcony in her garden. Of all Corinne’s ornaments, none but 
the flowers were left; and even they were scarce visible, as the 
theatre was faintly illumined in imitation of moonlight, and the 
countenance of the fond Italian veiled in tender gloom. Her voice 
sounded still more sweetly than it had done amid the splendors 
of the fête. Her band, raised towards the stars, seemed invoking 
them, as alone worthy of her confidence ; and when she repeated, 
“ Oh, Romeo, Romeo !” certain as Oswald felt that it was of him 
she thought, he was jealous that any other name than his own 
should be breathed by tones so delicious. She sat in front of the 
balcony; the actor who played Romeo was somewhat in the shade; 
all the glances of Corinne fell on her beloved, as she spoke thosa 
entrancing lines : — 

“In truth, fair Montague! I am too fond, 

And therefore thou mayst think my ’havior light ; 

But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true 
Than those who have more cunning to be strange.” 

****** 

“Therefore — pardon me!” 

11 * 


Ï26 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


At those words, “ pardon me !” for loving, for letting thee know 
it — so tender an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne, such respect 
for her lover, such pride in her “fair Montague,” that Oswald 
raised his head, and believed himself the monarch of the world, 
since he reigned over a heart inclosing all the treasures of love 
and life. Corinne, perceiving the effect this took on him, became 
doubly animated by that heartfelt enthusiasm, which, of itself can 
work such miracles; and when, at the approach of day, Juliet 
fancies that she hears the lark, the signal for Romeo’s departure,* 
the accents of Corinne acquired a superhuman power ; they told 
of love, indeed, but a religious mystery was now mingled with it ; 
recollections of heaven — a presage of returning thither — the ce- 
lestial grief of a soul exiled on earth, and soon to be reclaimed 
by its diviner home. Ah, how happy was Corinne, while playing 
so noble a part before the lover of her choice ! How few lives 
can bear a comparison with one such night ! Had Oswald him- 
self been the Romeo, her pleasure could not have been so com- 
plete. She would have longed to break through the greatest 
poet’s verse, and speak after her own heart ; or perhaps the diffi- 
dence of love would have enchained her genius; truth carried 
to such a height would have destroyed illusion ; but how sweet 
was the consciousness of his presence, while she was influenced 
by the exalted impulses which poetry alone can awaken, giving 
us all the excitement, without the anguish, of reality ; while the 
affections she portrayed were neither wholly personal nor entirely 
abstract, but seemed saying to her Oswald . “ Rehold, how capa- 
ble I am of loving !” It was impossible for her to be perfectly 
at ease in her own situation. Passion and modesty alternately» 
impelled and restrained her, now piquing her pride, now enfoicing 
its submission ; but thus to display her perfections without arro- 

* Corinne’s translation deviated widely from the original. Minor 
points I have presumed to reconcile, but this I must leave as I find, 
though the two parting scenes in Romeo and Juliet are so dissimilar, 
that it is difficult to guess how they could becotre confused in such a 
mind as Madame de Staël’s ; or why she should have mitted ak mention 
of Tybalt’s death, and Romeo’s banishment. — Tr. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY 


127 


gance, to unite sensibility with the calm it so often disturbs ; to 
live a moment in the sweetest dreams of the heart — such was the 
pure delight of Corinne while acting Juliet. To this was united 
all her pleasure in the applause she won ; and her looks seemed 
laying her success at the feet of him whose acceptance was worth 
all fame, and who preferred her glory to his own. Yes, for that 
hour, Corinne, thou wert enviable ! tasting, at the price of thy 
repose, the ectasies for which, till then, thou hadst vainly sighed, 
and must henceforth forever deplore. 

Juliet secretly becomes the wife of Romeo. Her parents com- 
mand her to espouse another, and she obtains from a friar a 
leeping-draught, which gives her the appearance of death. Co- 
rinne’s trembling step and altered voice; her looks, now wild, 
now dejected, betrayed the struggles of love and fear; the terrible 
image of bemg borne alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the 
brave fidelity which bade her young soul triumph over so natural 
a dread. Once she raised her eyes to heaven, with an ardent 
petition for that aid with which no human being can dispense ; at 
another time Oswald fancied that she spread her arms towards 
him; he longed to fly to her aid; he rose in a kind of delirium, 
then sank on his seat, recalled to himself by the surprise of those 
around him; but his agitation was too strong to be concealèd. 
In the fifth act, Romeo, believing Juliet dead, bears her from the 
tomb. Corinne was clad in white, her black locks dishevelled, 
her head gracefully resting on his bosom; but with an air of 
death so sadly true, that Oswald’s heart was torn by contending 
sensations. He could not bear to see her in another’s embrace ; 
be shuddered at the sight of her inanimate beauty, and felt, like 
Romeo, that cruel union of despair and love, voluptuousness and 
death, which renders this scene the most heart-rending on the 
stage. At last, when Juliet wakes in the grave, beside which 
her lover has just sacrificed himself, her first words beneath those 
funeral vaults partake not of the fear they might occasion, but 
she cries : — 

“ Where is my lord ? Where is my Romeo ’’ 


128 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Nevil replied but by a groan ; and was hurried by Mr. Edgar- 
mond out of the theatre. At the conclusion of the piece, Corinne 
was overpowered by fatigue and excitement. Oswald was the first 
to seek her room, where, still in the shroud of Juliei., she lay 
half-swooning in the arms of her women. In the excess of hia 
dismay, he could no longer distinguish fiction from reality ; but, 
throwing himself at her feet, exclaimed : — 

“Eyes, look your last! Arms take your last embrace I s ’ 

Corinne, whose senses still wandered, shrieked : 11 Great God ! 
what say you ? Would you leave me !” — “ No, no, I swear !” he 
cried. At that instant a crowd of admiring friends broke in upon 
them; she anxiously desired to hear what he had meant to say, 
but they were not left alone together for an instant, and could 
not speak to each other again that evening. 

Never had any drama .produced such an effect in Italy. The 
Romans extolled the piece, the translation, and the actress ; 
asserting that this was the tragedy which represented them to 
the life, and gave an added value to their language, by eloquence 
at once inspired and natural. Corinne received all these eulo 
giums with gracious sweetness ; but her soul hung on these brief 
words : u I swear !” believing that they contained the secret of 
her destiny/ 


BOOK VIII. 

THE STATUES AND PICTURES. 


CHAPTER I 

After such an evening, Oswald could not close his eyes all 
night. He had never been so near sacrificing everything to 
Corinne. He wished not even to learn her secret, until he 
had solemnly consecrated his life to her service; all indecision 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


129 


seemed banished, as he mentally composed the letter which 
he intended to write the next morning; but this resolved and 
happy confidence was not of long duration His thoughts again 
strayed towards the past, reminding him that he had loved before ; 
and though far less than he adored Corinne, nay, an object not to 
be compared with her, he had then been hurried into rashness 
that broke his father's heart. “ How know I,” he cried, “ that 
he does not once more fear his son may forget his duty to his 
native land? Oh thou, the best friend I can ever call mine 
own !" be continued to the miniature of his parent, “ I can no 
longer hear thy voice, yet teach me by that silent look, still — 
still so powerful over me, how I should act, that thou mayest 
gaze from heaven with some satisfaction on thy son. Yet, yet 
remember the thirst for happiness which consumes humanity ; be 
but as indulgent in thy celestial home, as late thou wert on earth. 
I should become more worthy of thee, were my heart content; did 
1 live with that angelic creature, had I the honor of protecting — 
saving such a woman! Save her?" he added, suddenly, “ and 
from what ? from the life she loves ; a life of triumph, flattery, 
and freedom ?" This reflection of his own scared him as if it had 
been spoken by the spirit of his sire. In situations like Os- 
wald's, who has not felt that secret superstition which makes us 
regard our thoughts and sufferings as warnings from on high ? 
Ah, what struggles beset the soul susceptible alike of passion and 
of conscience ! He paced his chamber in cruel agitation ; some- 
times pausing to gaze on the soft and lovely moonlight of Italy. 
Nature's fair smile may render us resigned to everything but sus- 
pense. Day rose on his — and when d’Erfeuil and Edgarmond 
entered his room, so much had one night changed him, that both 
were alarmed for his health. The Count first broke silence. “ I 
must confess," he said, “that 1 was charmed last evening. What 
a pity that such capabilities should be wasted on a woman of for- 
tune ! were Corinne but poor, free as she is, she might take to the 
stage, and be the glory of Italy." Oswald was grieved by this 
speech ; yet knew not how to show it ; for such was d'Erfeuil'a 
peculiarity, that one could not legitimately object to aught he 


130 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


said, however great the pain and anger he awakened. It is only 
for feeling hearts to practise reciprocal indulgence. Self-love, so 
sensitive in its own cause, has rarely any sympathy to spare for 
others. Mr. Edgarmond spoke of Corinne in the most pleasing 
manner ; and Nevil replied in English, to defend this theme from 
the uncongenial comments of d’Erfeuil, who exclaimed, “ So, it 
seems, I am one too many here ; well, I’ll to the lady ; she must 
be longing for my opinion of her Juliet. I have a few hints to 
give her, for future improvement; they relate merely to detail, 
but details do much towards a whole ; and she is really so asto- 
nishing a woman, that I shall neglect nothing that can bring her 
to perfection. Indeed,” he added, confidentially addressing Nevil, 
u I must encourage her to play frequently ; it is the surest way of 
catching some foreigner of rank. You and I, dear Oswald, are 
too accustomed to fine girls for any one of them to lead us into 
such an absurdity; but a German prince, now, or a Spanish 
grandee — who knows? eh?” At these words Oswald started up, 
beside himself; and there is no telling what might have occurred 
had the Count guessed his impulse ; but he was so satisfied with 
his own concluding remark, that he tripped from the room, with- 
out a suspicion of having offended Lord Nevil ; had he dreamed 
of such a thing, he would assuredly have remained where he was, 
though he liked Oswald as well as he could like any one ; but his 
undaunted valor contributed, still more than his conceit, to veil 
his defects from himself. With so much delicacy in all affairs of 
honor, he could not believe himself deficient in that of feeling ; 
and having good right to consider himself brave and gentlemanly, 
he never calculated on any deeper qualities than his own. Not 
one cause of Oswald’s agitation had escaped the eye of Edgar 
mond. As soon as they were alone, he said : “ My dear Nevil, 
good-bye! Em off for Naples.” — “ So soon?” exclaimed his 
/ friend. “ Yes, it is not good for me to stay here ; for even at 
fifty, I am not sure that I should not go mad for Corinne.”—— 
“ And what then ?” — “ Why then, such a woman is not fit to live 
in Wales; believe me, dear Oswald, none but English wives will 
do for England. It is not for me to advise, and I scarce need 


i T A L Y. 


131 


CORINNE; OR, 

say that I shall never allude there to what I have seen here ; but 
Corinne, all-charming as she is, makes me think, with Walpole, 
( Of what use would she be in a house ? Now the house is every- 
thing with us, you know, at least to our wives. Can you fancy 
your lovely Italian remaining quietly at home, while fox-hunts or 
debates took you abroad ? or leaving you at your wine, to make 
tea against your rising from table ? Dear Oswald, the domestic 
worth of our women you will never find elsewhere. Here men 
have nothing to do but to please the ladies ; therefore, the more 
agreeable they find them, the better; but with us, where men 
lead active lives, the women should bloom in the shade ; to which 
it were a thousand pities if Corinne were condemned. I would 
place her on the English throne, not beneath my humble roof. 
My Lord ! I knew your mother, whom your respected father so 
much regretted; just such a woman will be my young cousin; 
and that is the wife I would choose, were I still of an age to be 
beloved. Farewell, my dear Nevil; do not take what I have said 
amiss, for no one can admire Corinne more than I do; nay, per- 
haps, at your years, I should not be able to give up the hope of 
winning her.” He pressed his young friend’s hand very cordiall}’, 
and left him, ere Oswald could utter a word ; but Edgarmond un- 
derstood the cause of this silence, and, content with the grasp 
which replied to his, was glad to conclude a conversation which 
had cost him no slight pain. The only portion of what he had 
said that reached the heart of Oswald, was the mention of his 
mother, and the deep affection his father felt for her. She had 
died ere their child was fourteen ; yet he reveringly recalled the 
retiring virtues of her character. “ Madman that I am !” he 
cried, “ I desired to know what kind of wife my father had des- 
tined me, and I am answered by the image of his own, whom he 
adored. What would I more, then? why deceive myself? why 
pretend an ignorance of what he would think now, could I yet 
consult him ?” Still, it was with terror that he thougth of return- 
ing to Corinne, without giving her a confirmation of the senti- 
ments he had testified. The tumult of his breast became at last 
so uncontrollable, that it occasioned a recurrence of the distressing 


132 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


accident against which he now believed his lungs secure One 
may imagine the frightful scene — his alarmed domestics calling 
for help, as he lay silently hoping that death would end his sor- 
row. “ If I could die, once more looking on Corinne,” he 
thought, “ once more called her Romeo.” A few tears fell from 
his eyes, the first that any grief, save the loss of his father, had 
cost him since that event. He wrote a melancholy line account- 
ing for his absence, to Corinne. She had began the day with 
fond delusive hopes. Believing herself loved, she was content ; 
for she knew not very clearly what more on earth she wished. 
A thousand circumstances blended the thought of marrying Os- 
wald with fear; and, as her nature was the present’s slave, too 
heedless of the future, the day which was to load her with such 
care, rose like the purest, calmest of her life. On receiving hi3 
note, how were her feelings changed ! She deemed him in great 
danger, and instantly, on foot, crossed the then crowded Corso, 
entering his abode before all the eyes of Rome. She had not 
given herself time to think, but walked so radidly, that when she 
reached his chamber she could neither speak nor breathe. He 
comprehended all she had risked for his sake, and overrated the 
consequences of an act which in England would have ruined a 
woman’s fame, especially if unwed : transported by generosity and 
gratitude, he raised himself, weak as he was, pressed her to his 
heart, and murmured, “Dear love! leave thee? now that thou 

hast compromised thyself? — no, no ! — let my reparation ” 

She read his thought, and gently withdrawing from his arms, first 
ascertained that he was better than she had expected, then said 
gravely : “ You mistake, my Lord ! in coming to you I have done 
no more than the greatest number of women in Rome would have 
done in my place. Here, you know none but me. I heard you 
were ill ; it is my duty to nurse you. Ceremony should be 
obeyed, indeed, when it sacrifices but one’s self, yet ought to 
yield before the higher feelings due to the grief or danger of a 
friend. "What would be the lot of a woman, if the same laws 
which permitted her to love forbade her to indulge the resistless 
impulse of flying to the aid of those most dear to her ? I repeat, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


133 


my Lord, fear nothing for me ! My age and talents give me the 
freedoms of a married female. I do not conceal from my friends 
that I am here. I know not if they blame me for loving you, 
but surely, as 1 do, they cannot blame my devotion to you now.” 
This sincere and natural reply filled Oswald’s heart with most 
contrasted emotions : touched as he was by its delicacy, he was 
half disappointed. He would have found a pretext in her peril— 
a necessity for terminating his own doubts. He mused with dis 
pleasure on Italian liberty, which prolonged them thus, by per- 
mitting him so much favor, without imposing any bonds in 
return. He wished that honor had commanded him to follow 
inclination. These troublous thoughts caused him a severe 
relapse. Corinne, though suffering the most intense anxiety, 
lavished the fondest cares on his revival. Towards evening he 
was still more oppressed; she knelt beside his couch, supporting 
his head upon her bosom, though far more pitiable than himself. 
Oft as he gazed on her, did a look of rapture break through all 
his pangs. “ Corinne,” he whispered, “ here are some papers — 
you shall read to me — written by my father o-n Death. Think 
not,” he added, as he marked her dismay, “ that I believe myself 
dying; but whenever I am ill I reperuse these consolations, and 
seem again to hear them from his lips ; besides, my dearest, I 
wish you to know what a man he was; you will the better com- 
prehend my regret, his empire over me — all that I will some day 
confide to you.” Corinne took the papers, which Oswald always 
carried about him, and with a faltering voice began — 

“ Oh, ye just ! beloved of the Lord ! ye speak of death without 
a fear; to you it is but a change of homes; and this ye leave 
may be the least of all. Innumerable worlds that shine through 
yon infiuitude of space ! unknown communities of His creatures 
—children ! strewn through the firmament, ranged beneath its 
concave, let our praises rise with youre! We know not your 
condition, nor your share of God’s free bounty ; but in thinking 
over life and death, the past, the future, we participate in the 
interests of aM intelligent, all sentient beings, however distant be 
their dwelling-places. Assembled spheres ! wide-scattered fami- 
12 


134 CORINNE; OR, ITALÎ. 

lies ! ye sing with us, Glory to the Lord of heaven ! the King of 
earth ! the Spirit of the universe ! whose will transforms sterility 
to harvest, darkness to light, and death to life eternal. Assuredly 
the end of the just man deserves our envy; but few of us, or of 
our sires before us, have looked on such a death. Where is he who 
shall meet the eye of Omnipotence unawed ? Where is he who 
hath loved God without once wavering? Who served him from his 
youth up, and, in his age, finds nothing to remember with re- 
morse ? Where is the man, in all his actions moral, who has not 
been led by flattery, or scared by slander ? So rare a model were 
worthy of imitation ; but where exists it ? If such be amongst 
us, how ought our respect to follow him ! Let us beg to be pre- 
sent at his death, as at the loveliest of human spectacles. Take 
courage, and surround the bed, whence he will ritio no more! 
He knows it, yet is all seiene : a heavenly halo seems to crown 
his brow. He says, with the Apostle, ‘ I know in whom I have 
believed ;’ and this reliance, as hi? strength decays, lights up his 
features still. Already he beholds his celestial home, yet unfor- 
getful of the one he leaves. He is God’s own ; but turns not 
stoically from ties that lent a charm to his past life. His faith- 
ful partner, by the law of nature, will be the first to follow him. 
He dries her tears, and tells her they shall meet in heaven ! 
even there unable to expect felicity without her. Next, he re- 
minds her of the happy days that they have led together; not to 
afflict the heart of such dear friend, but to increase their mutual 
confidence in their Lord’s pardoning grace. The tender love he 
ever bore his life’s companion now seeks to soften her regrets ; to 
bid her revel in the sweet idea that their two beings grew from 
the same stem ; and that this union may prove one defence, one 
guarantee the more, against the terrors of that dark futurity 
wherein God’s pity is the sole refuge of our startled thoughts. 
But how conceive the thousand feelings that pierce a constant 
heart, when one vast solitude appears before it ? and all the in- 
terests that have filled past years are vanishing forever ? 0 thou, 

who must survive this second self, Heaven lent for thy support ! 
who was thine all, and whose looks now bid thee a sad adieu 1 


135 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

thou wilt not shrink from laying thy hand upon the fainting 
heart, whose latest pulse, after the death of words, speaks it 
thine own. Shall we then blame you if you wish your dust 
might mingle ? All-gracious Deity ! awaken them together. Or, 
if but one deserves thy favoring call to number with the elect, 
let but the other learn these blissful tidings ; read them in angel 
light one fleeting instant, and he will sink resigned back to per- 
petual gloom. Perhaps I err in this essay to paint the last hours 
of such a man, who sees the advancing strides of death, and feels 
that he must part from all he holds most dear. He struggles for 
a momentary strength, that his last words may serve to instruct 
his children. ‘ Fear not/ he says, Ho watch your sire’s release, 
to lose your oldest friend ; it is by God’s ordinance he goes be- 
fore you, from a world into which he eame the first. He would 
fain teach you courage, though he weeps to say farewell : he could 
have wished to stay and aid you longer, by experience to have 
led you some steps further on the way surrounded by such perils 
for your youth ; but life has no defence against its Giver’s man- 
date. You will proceed alone in a wide world, where I shall be 
no more. May you abundantly reap all the blessings that Provi- 
dence has sown there ! But never forget that this world is a 
land through which we only journey to our home. Let us hope 
to meet again. May our Father accept the sacrifice I tender, in 
your cause, of all my vows and tears ! Cling to religion ! Trust 
its promises ! Love it, as the last link betwixt child and parent; 
betwixt life and death ! Draw near me, that I may see you still. 
The benediction of an humble Christian rest with you all !’ He 
dies ! Angels, receive his soul, and leave us here the memory of 
his deeds, his faith, his chastened hope.” (19) 

The emotions of Oswald and Corinne had frequently inter, 
rupted their progress : at last they were obliged to give up the 
attempt. She trembled lest he should harm himself by weeping, 
unconscious that her tears flowed fast as his. “Yes,” sobbed 
Nevil; “yes, sweetest friend of my bosom, the floods of our 
hearts have mingled ; you have mourned with me that guardian 
saint whose last embrace ye»t thrills my breast, whose noble conn* 


136 


CORINNE; OR, 1TALÏ. 


tenance I still behold. Perhaps he has chosen thee for mj 
solace.” — “No, no,” exclaimed Corinne; “he did not think me 
worthy.” — “What say you?” interrupted Oswald; and, alarmed 
lest she had betrayed herself, she replied : “ He might not 
have thought me worthy of you.” This slight change of phrase 
dissipated his uneasiness, and he fearlessly continued speaking of 
his father. The physicians arrived, and slightly reassured him ; 
but absolutely forbade his attempting to converse, until his in- 
ternal hurt was healed. Six whole days passed, during which 
Corinne never left him. With gentle firmness she enjoined his 
silence, yet contrived to vary the hours by reading, music, and 
sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which she sustained both 
parts ; serious or gay, it was for his sake that she supported her- 
self, veiling beneath a thousand graceful arts the solicitude which 
consumed her ; she was never off her guard for an instant. She 
perceived what Oswald suffered, almost before himself : the cou- 
rage he assumed deceived her not: she did, indeed, “anticipate 
the asking eye,” while her chief endeavor was that of diverting 
his mind, as much as possible, from the value of these tender 
offices. If he turned pale, the rose fled from her lip, and her 
hand trembled as she brought him a restorative : even then would 
she smile through her tears, and press his hand to her heart, as if 
she would fain have added her stock of life to his. At last her 
efforts succeeded : he recovered. “ Corinne,” he said, as soon as 
permitted to speak, “why has not my friend Edgarmond wit- 
nessed your conduct ? he would have seen that you are not less 
good than great ; that domestic life with you would be a perpe- 
tual enchantment; that you differ from our women only in adding 
charms to virtue. It is too much ! here ends the combat that so 
nearly reduced me to the grave. Corinne ! you, who conceal 

your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and pronounce our doom.” 

“ Our doom,” she replied, “if you feel as I do, is — not to part; 
yet believe me, till now, at least, I have never dared to wish my- 
self your wife : the scheme of my existence is entirely disordered 
by the love that every day enslaves me more and more ; yet I 
know not if we ought to marry.” — “ Corinne,” he cried, “do you 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


137 


despise me for having hesitated ? Can you attribute my delay to 
contemptible motives ? Have you not guessed that the deep re- 
morse to which I have been for two years a prey alone has been 
the cause ?” — “ I know it,” she answered. “ Had I suspected 
you of considerations foreign to those of the heart, you would not 
have been dear to me. But life, I know, belongs not all to love ; 
habit and memory weave such nets around us that even passion 
cannot quite destroy : broken for a moment, they will grow again, 
as the ivy clasps the oak. My dear Oswald ! let us give no epoch 
of life more than it requires. At this, it is essential to me that 
you leave me not. The dread of a sudden separation incessantly 
pursues me. You are a stranger here ; no ties detain you : if 
once you go, all is over; nothing will be left to me of you, but 
my own grief. Nature, the arts, poetry, all that I have shared 
with you, lately, alas ! with you alone, will speak no longer to my 
soul ! I never wake without trembling. I ask the fair day if it 
has still a right to shine ; if you, the sun of my being, are near 
me yet ? Oswald, remove this fear, and I will not look beyond 
the present’s sweet security.” — “ You know,” replied he, “ that 
no Englishman should renounce his country : war may recall 
me.” — “ 0 God !” she cried, “ would you prepare my mind ?” 
Her limbs quivered, as if at the approach of the most terrific 
danger. “ If it be even so,” she added, “ take me with you — as 

your wife your slave !” Then suddenly regaining her spirits, 

she continued : “ Oswald, you will never depart without warning 
me ? Never ! will you ? Listen ! in no country is a criminal led 
to torture without being allowed some hours to collect his thoughts. 
It must not be by letter : you will come yourself, to tell me, to 
hear me, ere you fly ? How ! you hesitate to grant my prayer ?” 
“ No,” returned he, “you wish it; and I swear, if my departuru 
be necessary, I will apprise you of it, and that moment shal. 
decide our fate.” She left him. 


12 * 


138 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER IL 

Corinne now carefully avoided all explanations. She wished 
to render her lover’s life as calm as possible. Their every 
interview had tended to convince her that the disclosure of what 
she had been, and sacrificed, was but too likely to make an unfa- 
vorable impression ; she, therefore, sought again to interest him 
in the still unseen wonders of Rome, and thus refard the instant 
that must clear all doubts. Such a situation would be insupport- 
able beneath any other feeling than love, whieh sheds such spells 
over every minute, that, though still desiring some indefinite 
futurity, we receive a day as a century of joy, and pain, so full of 
sensations and ideas is each succeeding morrow. Love is the 
emblem of eternity : it confounds all notion of time : effaces all 
memory of a beginning, all fear of an end : we fancy that we 
have always possessed what we love, so difficult is it to imagine 
how we could have lived without it. The more terrible separa- 
tion seems, the less probable it becomes : like death, it is an evil 
we rather name than believe, as if the inevitable were impossible. 
Corinne, who, in her innocent artifice for varying Oswald’s 
amusements, had hitherto reserved the statues and paintings, now 
proposed taking him to see them, as his health was sufficiently 
re-established. — “ It is shameful,” she said, with a smile, “ that 
you should be still so ignorant; therefore to-morrow we will 
commence our tour through the galleries and museums.” — “As 
you will,” replied Nevil ; “ but, indeed, Corinne, you want not 
the aid of such resources to keep me with you ; on the contrary, 
I make a sacrifice to obey you, in turning my gaze to any other 
object, be it what it may.” 

They went first to the Vatican, that palace of sculpture, where 
the human form shines deified by paganism, as are the virtues by 
Christianity. In those silent halls are assembled gods and 
heroes; while beauty, in eternal sleep, looks as if dreaming of 
herself were the sole pleasure she required. As we contemplate 
these admirable forms and features, the design of the Divinity, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


139 


in creating man, seems revealed bj the noble person he has 
deigned to bestow on him. The soul is elevated by hopes full of 
chaste enthusiasm; for beauty is a portion of the universe, 
which, beneath whatever guise presented, awakes religion in the 
heart of man. What poetry invests a face where the most sub- 
lime expression is fixed forever, where the grandest thoughts are 
enshrined in images so worthy of them ! Sometimes an ancient 
sculptor completed but one statue in his life ; that constituted his 
history. He daily added to its perfection : if he loved or was 
beloved ; if he derived fresh ideas from art or nature, they served 
but to embellish the features of this idol. He translated into looks 
all the feelings of his soul. Grief, in the present state of society 
so cold and oppressive, then actually ennobled its victim ; indeed, 
to this day the being who has not suffered can never have thought 
or felt. But the ancients dignified grief by heroic composure, a 
sense of their own strength, developed by their public freedom. 
The loveliest Grecian statues were mostly expressive of repose. 
The Laocoon and the Niobe arc among the few stamped by sorrow ; 
but it is the vengeance of Heaven, and not human passion, that 
they both recall. The moral being was so well organized of old, the 
air circulated so freely in those manly chests, and political order 
so harmonized with such faculties, that those times scarce ever, 
like our own, produced discontented men. Subtle as were the 
ideas then discovered, the arts were furnished with none but those 
primitive affections which alone can be typified by eternal marble. 
Hardly can a trace of melancholy be found on their statues. A 
head of Apollo, in the Justinian palace, and one of the dying 
Alexander, indeed, betray both thoughtfulness and pain ; but they 
belonged to the period of Grecian slavery, which banished the 
tranquil pride that usually pervaded both their sculpture and 
their poetry. Thought, unfed from without, preys on itself, dig- 
ging up and analyzing its own treasures ; but it has not the creative 
power which happiness alone can give. Even the antique sarco- 
phagii of the Vatican teem but with martial or joyous images; 
the commemoration of an active life they thought the best homage 
they could pay the dead — nothing weakened or discouraged the 


140 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


living. Emulation was the reigning principle in o^fc as in policy ; 
there was room for all the virtues, as for all the talents. The 
vulgar prided in the ability to admire, and genius was worshipped 
even by those who could not aspire to it3 palm. Grecian religion 
was not, like Christianity, the. solace of misery, the wealth of tho 
poor, the future of the dying : it required glory and triumph ; it 
formed the apotheosis of man. In this perishable creed, even 
beauty was a dogma ; artists, called on to represent base or fero- 
cious passions, shielded the human form from degradation by blend- 
ing it with the animal, as in the satyrs and centaurs. On the 
contrary, when seeking to realize an unusual sublimity, they united 
the charms of both sexes; as in the warlike Minerva, and the 
Apollo Musagets; felicitous propinquity of vigor and sweetness, 
without which neither quality can attain perfection ! Corinne de- 
layed Oswald some time before the sleeping figures that adorn 
the tombs, in the manner most favorable to their art. She observed 
that statues representing an action suspended at its height, an im- 
pulse suddenly checked, create, sometimes, a painful astonishment; 
but an attitude of complete repose offers an image that thoroughly 
accords with the influence of southern skies. The arts there seem 
but the peaceful spectators of nature; and genius itself, which 
agitates a northern breast, there appears but one harmany the 
more. Oswald and Corinne entered the court in which the sculp- 
tured animals are assembled with the statue of Tiberius in the 
midst of them : this arrangement was made without premeditation ; 
the creatures seemed to have ranged themselves around their mas- 
ter. Another such hall contains the gloomy works of the Egypt- 
ians, resembling mummies more that men. This people, as much 
as possible, assimilated life with death, and lent no animation to 
their human effigies ; that province of art appeared to them inac- 
cessible. About the porticos of this museum each step presents 
new wondérs; vases, altars, ornaments of all kinds, surround the 
Apollo, the Laccoon, and the Muses. Here may one learn to ap- 
preciate Homer and Sophocles, attaining a knowledge of antiquity 
that cannot be elsewhere acquired. Amid these porticos are 
fountains, whose incessant flow gently reminds you of past hours ; 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


141 


it is two thousand years since the artists of these chefs-d’œuvre 
existed. But the most melancholy sights here are the broken 
statues, the torso of Hercules, heads separated from their trunks ; 
the foot of a Jupiter, which it is supposed must have belonged to 
the largest and most symmetrical statue ever known. One sees 
the battle-field whereon Time contended with Glory ; these mu- 
tilated limbs attesting the tyrant's victory, and our own losses. 
After leaving the Vatican, Corinne led Oswald to the colossal 
figures on Monte Cavallo, said to be those of Castor and Pollux. 
Each of these heroes governs a foaming steed with one hand : this 
struggle of man with brute, like all the works of the ancients, 
finely exemplifying the physical powers of human nature, which 
had then a dignity it no longer possesses. Bodily exercises are 
generally abandoned to our common people; personal vigor, in 
the antique, appeared so intimately connected with the moral qual- 
ities of those who lived in the heart of war, a war of single com- 
bats, that generosity, fierceness, command, and height of stature, 
seemed inseparable, ere intellectual religion had throned man's 
potency in his soul. As the gods wore our shape, every attribute 
appears symbolical : the “ brawns of Hercules" suggest no repol- 
lections of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty will, clothed in 
supernatural grandeur. 

Corinne and Oswald finished their day by visiting the studio of 
the great Canova. The statues gained much from being seen by 
torchlight, as the ancients must have thought, who placed them 
in their Thermes, inaccessible to the day. A deeper shade thus 
softens the brilliant uniformity of the marble : its pallor looks 
more like that of life. At that time Canova had just achieved an 
exquisite figure, intended for a tomb; it represented Grief leaning 
on a Lion. Corinne detected a resemblance to Nevil, with which 
the artist himself was struck. Our Englishman turned away his 
head, to avoid this kind of attention, whispering to his beloved : 
« Corinne, I believed myself condemned to this eternal grief ere 
I met you, who have so changed me, that sometimes hope, and 
always a delicious agitation, pervades the heart that ought to bo 
devoted to regret." 


142 


CO B. INNE; OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER III. 

In painting, the wealth of Rome surpasses that of the rest o? 
the world. Only one point of discussion can exist on the effect 
which her pictures produce — does the nature of the subjects 
selected by Italy’s great masters admit the varied originality of 
passion which painting can express ? The difference of opinion be- 
tween Oswald and Corinne on this point, as on others, sprung but 
from the difference of their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed 
that Scripture subjects were those most favorable to the painter; 
that sculpture was the Pagan’s art, and painting the Christian’s; 
that Michael Angelo, the painter of the Old, and Raphael, that 
of the New Testament, must have been gifted with sensibility 
profound as that of Shakspeare or Racine. “ Sculpture,” she said, 
“can present but a simple or energetic life to the eye, while paint- 
ing displays the mysteries of retirement and resignation, and makes 
the immortal spirit speak through the fleeting colors. Historical 
facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely picturesque. 
One had need, in order to understand them, to keep up the custom 
of writing the speeches of their personages on ribbons rolling from 
their mouths. But religious pieces are instantly comprehended 
by the whole world ; and our attention is not turned from the art, 
in order to divine their meaning. 

“ The generality of modern painters are too theatrical. They 
bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of existence and na- 
tural way of life, familiar to Andrew Mantegne, Perugin, and 
Leonardo da Yinci, is entirely forgotten. To this antique repose 
they were wont to add the depth of feeling which marks Christ- 
ianity. For this I admire the compositions of Raphael, especially 
in his early works. All the figures tend towards the main object, 
without being elaborately grouped to create a sensation — this ho- 
nesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterizes true genius ; 
for speculations on success usually destroy enthusiasm. There is 
a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and those who have it not 
seek to veil the defect in brilliant but illusive auxiliaries, riel 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


143 


costume, remarkable postures, while an unpretending virgin, with 
her infant at her breast, an old man attending the mass of Boi- 
sena, a young one leaning on his staff, in the school of Athens, 
or Saint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere force of 
expression, act most powerfully on the mind. These natural 
beauties grow on us each day, while of works done for effect our 
first sight is always the most striking.”(20) Corinne fortified 
these reflections by another — it was the impossibility of our sym- 
pathizing with the mythology of the Greeks and Romans, or in- 
venting on their ground. u We may imitate them by study,” she 
said ; “ but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights for 
which learning and memory are so indispensable, and wherein it 
can but copy books or statues. Now, in pictures alluding to our 
own history and faith, the painter is personally inspired; feeling 
what he depicts, retracing what he has seen, he draws from the 
life. Portraitures of piety are mental blessings that no others 
could replace ; as they assure us that the artist’s genius was ani- 
mated by the holy zeal which alone can support us against the 
disgusts of life and the injustice of man.” 

Oswald could not, in all respects, agree with her ; he was almost 
scandalized at seeing that Michael Angelo had attempted to repre- 
sent the Deity himself in mortal shape ; he did not think that >we 
should dare embody Him ; and could scarcely call up one thought 
sufficiently ethereal thus to ascend towards the Supreme Being, 
though he felt that images of this kind, in painting, always leave 
us much to desire. He believed, with Corinne, that religious 
meditation is the most heartfelt sentiment we can experience, and 
that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiognomical 
mysteries ; but as religion represses all movements of the heart 
to which she has not given birth, the faces of saints and martyrs 
oannot be much varied. Humility, so lovely in the sight of 
Heaven, weakens the energy of earthly passion, and necessarily 
monotonizes the generality of scriptural subjects. When the ter« 
rible Angelo dealt with them, he almost changed their spirit, giv* 
ing to his prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen 
gods than to saints. Oft, too, like Dante, he mixed Pagan attri* 


144 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


butes with those of Christianity. One of the most affecting truths 
in its early establishment is the lowly station of the apostles who 
preached it, the slavery of the Jews, so long depositaries of the 
promise that announced the Saviour. This contrast between in- 
significance of means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. 
Yet in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian 
subjects must needs prove less attractive than those derived from 
the times of heroic fable. Of all arts, none save music can be 
purely religious. Painting cannot be content with an expression 
indefinite as that of sound. It is true that a happy combination 
of colors, and of clair -olscure, is harmony to the eye ; but as it 
shows us life, it should give forth life’s strong and varied pas- 
sions. Undoubtedly, such passages of history ought to be selected 
as are too well known to be unintelligible : facts must flash on us 
from canvas, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are thus 
immediate; but with this equality provided, historical pictures 
have the advantage of diversified situation and sentiments. Nevil 
asserted, too, that a preference should be given to scenes from 
tragedies, or the most touching poetic fictions, so that all the 
pleasures of imagination might thus unite. Corinne contended 
against this opinion, seducing as it was ; convinced that the en- 
croachment of one art upon another would be mutually injurious. 
For sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to 
painting; painting, by aspiring to dramatic animation. The arts 
are limited, not in their powers but in their means. Genius seeks 
not to vanquish the fitness of things which its glory consists in 
guessing. “ You, my dear Oswald,” said Corinne, “ love not the 
arts for themselves, but as they accord with your own feelings; 
you are moved merely when they remind you of your heart’s 
afflictions. Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than 
those which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but 
please or -interest us while our minds are calm and our fancy is 
free. We need not the gayety which society confers in order to 
enjoy them, but the composure born of soft and radiant climes. 
We ought, in the arts that represent exterior objects, to feel the 
universal harmony of nature, which, while we are distressed, we 
have not within ourselves .” — “ I know not,” answered Oswald 


145 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

I hare sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I 
am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of physical 
suffering. My strongest objection against Scripture pictures is 
the pain I feel in looking on blood and tortures, however exalted 
the faith of their victims. Philoctetus is, perhaps, the only tragic 
subject in which such agonies can be admitted; but with how 
much of poetry are his cruel pangs invested 1 They are caused 
by the darts of Hercules ; and surely the son of Esculapius can 
cure them. His wounds are so associated with the moral resent- 
ment they stir in that pierced breast, that they can exite no 
symptom of disgust. But the Possessed, in Raphael's 1 Transfigu- 
ration' is disagreeable and undignified. We would fain discover 
the charm or grief, or fancy it like the melancholy of prosperity. 
It is the ideal of human fate that ought to appear. Nothing is 
more revolting than ensanguined gashes or muscular convulsions. 
In such pictures we at once miss and dread to find exactitude of 
imitation. What pleasure could such attempted fidelity bestow ? 
it is always either more horrible or less lovely than nature her- 
self." — “ You are right, my Lord," said Corinne, “ in wishing 
that these blots should be effaced from Christian pictures; they 
are unnecessary. Nevertheless, allow that soul-felt genius can 
triumph over them all. Look on the death of St. Jerome, by 
Dominichino; that venerable frame is livid, emaciated; but life 
eternal fills his aspect; and the miseries of the world are here 
collected but to melt before the hallowed rays of devotion. Yet, 
dear Oswald, though I am not wholly of your mind, I wish to 
show you that even in differing, we have always some analogy. 
I have attempted a realization of your ideal in the gallery to 
which my brothers in art have contributed, and where I have 
sketched a few designs myself ; you shall see the advantages and 
defects of the styles you prefer in my house at Tivoli. The 
weather is fine; shall we go there to-morrow?" — “My love, can 
you doubt my reply ?" he exclaimed. “ Have I another blessing 
in the world but you? The life I have too much freed from 
other occupations is now filled by the felicity of seeing and of 
hearing my Corinne !" 

13 


146 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Oswald himself drove the four horses that drew them next 
day towards Tivoli; he delighted in their rapid course, which 
seemed to lend fresh vivacity to the sense of existence — an im- 
pression so sweet when enjoyed beside those we love. He was 
careful, even to fear, least the slightest accident should befall his 
charge — that protecting air is such a link betwixt man and wo- 
man ! Corinne, though less easily alarmed than the rest of her 
sex, observed his solicitude with such pleasure as made her almost 
wish she could be frightened, that she might claim the reassur- 
ances of Oswald. What gave him so great an ascendency ovei 
her, was the occasional unexpected contrasts with himself, that lent 
a peculiar charm to his whole manner. Every one admired his 
mind and person ; but both were particulary interesting to a 
woman at once thus constant and versatile. Though occupied by 
nothing but Corinne, this same interest perpetually assumed a 
new character : sometimes reserve predominated ; then he aban- 
doned himself to his passion ; anon, he was perfectly amiable and 
content ; as probably, by a gloomy bitterness, betrayed the sin- 
cerity of his distress. Agitated at heart, he strove to appear 
serene, and left her to guess the secrets of his bosom. This kept 
her curiosity forever on the alert. His very faults set off his 
merits; and no man^however agreeable, who was devoid of these 
contradictions and inconsistencies, could thus have captivated 
Corinne : she was subdued by her fear of him. He reigned in 
her heart by a good and by an evil power — by his own qualities, 
and by the anxiety their ill-regulated state inspired. There was 
no safety in the happiness he bestowed. This, perhaps, accounts 
for the exaltation of her love ; she might not have thus adored 
aught she did not fear to lose. A mind of ardent yet delicate 
sensibility may weary of all save a being whose own, forever in 
motion, appears like a heaven, now clear and smiling, now lapped 
in threatening clouds. Oswald, ever truly, deeply attached, was 
not the less often on the brink of abjuring the object of his ten« 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 147 

derness, because long habit had persuaded him that he could find 
nothing but remorse in the too vivid feelings of his breast. 

On their way to Tivoli, they passed the ruins of Adrian’s palace, 
and the immense garden that surrounded it. Here were collected 
the rarest productions of the realms conquered by Rome. There 
are still seen the scattered stones called Egypt, India, and Asia. 
Further off is the retreat where Zenobia ended her days. The 
queen of Palmyra sustained not, in adversity, the greatness of 
her doom : she knew neither how to die for glory, like a man ; 
nor how, like a woman, to die rather than betray her friend. At 
last they beheld Tivoli, once the abode of Brutus, Augustus, 
Maecenas, Catullus, but, above all, Horace, whose verses have 
immortalized these scenes. Corinne’s villa stood near the loud 
cascade of Teverone. On the top of the hill, facing her garden, 
was the Sibyl’s temple. The ancients, by building these fanes on 
heights like this, suggested the due superiority of religion over 
all other pursuits. They bid you “ look from nature up to na- 
ture’s God,” and tell of the gratitude that successive generations 
have paid to Heaven. The landscape, seen from whatever point, 
includes this its central ornament. Such ruins remind one not 
of the work of man. They harmonize with the fair trees and 
lonely torrent, that emblem of the years which have made them 
what they are. The most beauteous land, that awoke no memory 
of great events, were uninteresting, compared with every spot that 
history sanctifies. What place could more appropriately have 
been selected as the home of Corinne than tfiat consecrated to the 
Sibyl, a woman divinely inspired? The house was charming; 
decked in all the elegance of modern taste, yet evidently by a 
classic hand. You saw that its mistress understood felicity in its 
highest signification; that which implies all that can ennoble, 
while it excites our minds. A sighing melody now stole on Os- 
wald’s ear, as if the nodding flowers and waving shrubs thus lent 
a voice to nature. Corinne informed him that it proceeded from 
the Eolian harps, which she had hung in her grottos, adding 
music to the perfume of the air. Her lover was entranced. 
« Corinne,” he cried, throwing himself at her feet, “till to-day ] 


148 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

have censured mine own bliss beside thee ; but now I feel as if 
the prayers of mine offended parent had won me all this favor; 
the chaste repose I here enjoy tells me that I am pardoned. 
Fearlessly, then, unite thy fate with mine ; there is no danger 
now 1” — « Well,” she replied, “ let us not disturb this pea^e by 
naming Fate. Why strive to gain more than she ever grants ? 
Why seek for change while we are happy ?” He was hurt by 
this reply. He thought she should have understood his readiness 
to confide, to promise, all. This evasion, then, offended and 
afflicted him : he appreciated not the delicacy which forbade Co- 
rinne to profit by his weakness. Where we really love, we often 
dread more than we desire the solemn moment that exchanges 
hope for certainty. Oswald, however, concluded that, much as 
she loved him, she preferred her independence, and therefore 
shunned an indissoluble tie. Irritated by this mistake, he fol- 
lowed her to the gallery in frigid silence. She guessed his mood, 
but knew his pride too well to tell him so ; yet, with a vague 
design of soothing him, she lent even to general and indifferent 
topics the softest tones of affection. 

Her gallery was composed of historical, poetic, religious sub- 
jects, and landscapes. None of them contained any great number 
of figures. Crowded pictures are, doubtless, arduous tasks ; but 
their beauties are mostly either too confused or too detailed. 
Unity of interest, that vital principle of art, as of all things, is 
necessarily frittered away. The first picture represented Bru- 
tus, sitting lost in tflought, at the foot of the statue of Borne, 
while slaves bore by the dead bodies of the sons he had con- 
demned; on the other side, their mother and sisters stood in 
frantic despair, fortunately excused, by their sex, from that cou- 
rage which sacrifices the affections. The situation of Brutus 
beneath the statue of Rome tells all. But how, without explana- 
tion, can we know that this is Brutus, or that those are his chil- 
dren, whom he himself has sentenced? and yet the event cannot 
be better set forth by any painting. Rome fills its background, 
as yet unornamented as a city, grand only as the country that 
could inspire such heroism. “Once hear the name,” said Co 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 149 

firme, “and doubtless your whole soul is given up to it; otherwise 
might not uncertainty have converted a pleasure which ought've 
be so plain and so easy into an abstruse enigma? I chose the 
subject, as recalling the most terrible deed a patriot ever dared 
The next is Marius, taken by one of the Cimbri, who cannot 
resolve to kill so great a man. Marius, indeed, is an imposing 
figure ; the costume and physiognomy of the Cimbri leader ex- 
tremely picturesque; it marks the second era of Rome, when 
laws were no more, but when genius still exerted a vast control. 
Next come the days in which glory led but to misfortune and 
insult. The third picture is Belisarius, bearing his young guide, 
who had expired while asking alms for him ; thus is the blind 
hero recompensed by his master; and in the world he vanquished 
hath no better office than that of carrying to the grave the sad 
remains of yon poor boy, his only faithful friend. Since the 
old school, I have seen no truer figure than that; the painter, 
like the poet, has loaded him with all kinds of miseries — too 
many, it may be, for compassion. But what tells us that it is 
Belisarius ? what fidelity to history is exacted both of artist and 
spectator ! a fidelity, by the way, often ruinous to the beautiful. 
In Brutus, we look on virtues that resemble crime ; in Marius on 
fame causing but distress ; in Belisarius, on services requited by 
the blackest persecution. Near these I have hung two pictures 
that console the oppressed spirit by reminding it of the piety that 
can cheer the broken heart, when all around is bondage. The 
first is Albano’s infant Christ asleep on the cross. Does not that 
stainless, smiling face convince us that heavenly faith hath naught 
to fear from grief or death ? The following one is Titian’s Jesus 
bending under the weight of the cross. His mother on her knees 
before him — what a proof of reverence for the undeserved oppres- 
sions suffered by her Divine Son ! What a look of resignation 
is his ! yet what an air of pain, and therefore sympathy, with us ! 
That is the best of all my pictures ; to that I turn my eyes with 
rapture inexhaustible; and now come my dramatic chefs-d’œuvre, 
drawn from the works of four great poets. There is the meeting 
of Dido and Æneas in the Elysian fields ; her indignant shadd 
13 * 


150 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

avoids him ; rejoicing to be freed from the fond heart which yet 
would throb at his approach. The vaporous color of the phantoms 
and the pale scenes around them, contrast the air of life in Æneas, 
and the Sibyl who conducts him ; but in these attempts the bard’s 
description must far transcend all that the pencil reaches ; in this, 
of the dying Clorinda, our tears are claimed by the remembered 
lines of Tasso, where she pardons the beloved Tancred, who has 
just dealt her the mortal wound. Painting inevitably sinks beneath 
poetry, when devoted to themes that great authors have already 
treated. One glance back at their words effaces all before us. 
Their favorite situations gain force from impassioned eloquence ; 
while picturesque effect is most favored by moments of repose, 
worthy to be indefinitely prolonged, and too perfect for the eye 
ever to weary of their grace. Your terrific Shakspeare, my Lord, 
afforded the ensuing subject. The invincible Macbeth, about to 
fight Macduff, learns that the witches have equivocated with him ; 
that Birnam wood is coming to Dunsinane, and that his adver- 
sary was not of woman born, but 1 untimely ripped’ from his dying 
mother.* Macbeth is subdued by his fate, not by his foe ; his 
desperate hand still grasps its glaive, certain that he must fall, 
yet to the last, opposing human strength against the might ot 
demons. There is a world of fury and of troubled energy in 
that countenance — but how many of the poet’s beauties do we 
lose ! Can we paint Macbeth hurried into crime by the dreams 
of ambition, conjured up by the powers of sorcery? How ex- 
press a terror compatible with intrepidity ; how characterize the 
superstition that oppresses him? the ignoble credulity, which, 
even while he feels such scorn of life, forces on him such horror 


* Madame de Staël says : “ Macbeth apprend que l’oracle des sorcières 
s’est accompli ; que le forêt de Birnam parait s’avancer vers Dunsinane ; 
et qu’il se bat avec un homme né depuis la mort de sa mère.” 

“Ludicrous perversion of the author’s meaning!” The points Shak- 
speare intended to impress were, that “the weird women,” “juggling 
fiends, who palter with us in a double sense,” had promised their victim 
success and life till events which he naturally conceived impossible, but 
which they knew would occur. — Tr. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


151 


»f death ! Doubtless the human face is the grandest of all mys- 
teries ; yet fixed on canvas, it can hardly tell of more than one sen- 
sation ; no struggle, no successive contrasts accessible to dramatic 
art, can painting give, as neither time nor motion exists for her. 

“ Racine’s Phedra forms the fourth picture. Hippolitus, in all 
the beauty of youth and innocence, repulses the perfidious accu- 
sations of his step-mother. The heroic Theseus still protects his 
guilty wife, whom his conquering arms surround. Phedra’s 
visage is agitated by impulses that we freeze to look on ; and her 
remorseless nurse encourages her in guilt. Hippolitus is here 
even more lovely than in Racine ; more like to Meleager, as no 
love for Aricia here seems to mingle with his tameless virtue. 
But could Phedra have supported her falsehood in such a pre- 
sence? No, she must have fallen at his feet; a vindictive woman 
may injure him she loves in absence, but, while she looks on him, 
that love must triumph. The poet never brings them together 
after she has slandered him. The painter was obliged to oppose 
them to each other; but is not the distinction between the pic- 
turesque and the poetical proved by the fact, that verses copied 
from paintings are worth all the paintings that have imitated 
poetry ? Fancy must ever precede reason, as it does in the growth 
of the human mind.” 

While Corinne spoke thus, she had frequently paused, hoping 
that Oswald would add his remarks ; but, as she made any feeling 
observation, he would merely sigh and turn away his head, to 
conceal his present disposition towards sadness. Corinne, at last 
discouraged by this silence, sat down and hid her face in her 
hands. Oswald hastily paced the apartment, and was just about 
to give way to his emotions, when, with a sudden check of pride, 
he turned towards the pictures, as if expecting her to finish the 
account of them. She had great hope in the last; and making an 
effort to compose herself, rose, saying : “ My Lord, there remain 
but three landscapes for me to show you; two possess some inte- 
rest. I do not like rural scenes that bear no allusion to fable or 
history; they are insipid as the idols of our poets. I prefer 
Salvator Rosa’s style here, which gives you rocks, torrents, and 


152 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


trees, with not even the wing of a bird visible to remind you of 
life ! The absence of man, in the midst of nature, excites pro* 
found reflections. What is this deserted scene, so vainly beauti- 
ful, whose mysterious charms address but the eye of their Creator? 
Here, on the contrary, history and poesy are happily united in a 
landscape. (21) This represents the moment when Cincinnatus 
is invited by the consuls to quit his plough, and take command of 
the Roman armies. All the luxury of the south is seen in this 
picture — abundant vegetation, burning sky, and an universal air 
of joy, that pervades even the aspects of the plants. See what 
a contrast is beside it. The son of Cairbar sleep upon his father’s 
tomb. Three nights he awaited the bard, who comes to honor the 
dead. His form is beheld afar, he descends the mountain’s side. 
On the cloud floats the shade of the chief. The land is hoary 
with ice; and the trees, as the rude winds war on their lifeless and 
withered arms, strew their sear leaves to the gale, and herald the 
course of the storm.” Oswald, till now, had cherished his resent- 
ment; but at the sight of this picture, the tomb of his father, the 
mountains of Scotland rose to his view, and his eyes filled with 
tears. Corinne took her harp, and sung one of those simple 
Scotch ballads whose notes seem fit to be borne on the wailing 
breeze. It was the Soldier’s farewell to his country and his love, 
in which recurred that most melodious and expressive of English 
phrases, “ No more.” * Corinne pronounced it so touchingly, that 
Oswald could resist no longer; and they wept together. “Ah, 
Corinne !” he cried, “ does then my country affect your heart ? 
Could you go with me to the land peopled by my recollections ? 
Would you there be the worthy partner of my life, as you are 
here its enchantress ?” — “ I believe I could,” she answered, “ for 
I love you.” — “ In the name of love and piety then, have no more 
secrets from me.” — “ Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald; I pro- 
mise it on one condition, that you ask not its fulfilment before 
the termination of our approaching religious solemnities. Is not 
the support of Heaven more than ever necessary at the moment 

* I presume the “Adieu to Lochaber,” though in that it is “nae 
mair.” — Tk. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


153 


which must decide my fate ?” — u Corinne,” he said, u if thy fate 
depends on me it shall no longer be a sad one.” — “You think 
so,” she rejoined ; “ but I have no such confidence, therefore in- 
dulge my weakness.” Oswald sighed, without granting or refusing 
the delay she asked. u Let us return to Rome now,” she added. 
“I should tell you all in this solitude; and if what I have to say 
must drive you from me — need it be so soon ? Come, Oswald ; 
you may revisit this scene when my ashes repose here.” Melted 
and agitated, he obeyed. On their road they scarcely spoke a 
word, but now and then exchanged looks of affection ; yet a heavy 
melancholy oppressed them both, as they re-entered Rome. 


BOOK IX. 

ON THE CARNIVAL, AND ITALIAN MUSIC. 


CHAPTER 1. 

The last day of the carnival is the gayest in the year. The 
Roman populace carry their rage for amusements to a perfect fever, 
unexampled elsewhere. The whole town is disguised ; the very 
gazers from its windows are masked. This begins regularly to 
the appointed day, neither public nor private affairs interfering 
with its indulgence. Then may one judge of the imagination 
possessed by the herd. Italian sounds sweetly even from their 
mouths. Alfieri said that he went to the market of Florence to 
learn good Italian. Rome has the same advantage ; and, perhaps, 
these are the only cities of which all the natives speak so well 
that the mind is feasted at every corner of the streets. The kind 
of gayety that shines through their harlequinades is often found 
in the most uneducated men ; and during this festival, while ex- 
aggeration and caricature are fair play, the- most comic scenes 
perpetually recur. Often a grotesque gravity contrasts the usually 


154 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


vivacious Italian manner, as if their strange dresses conferred an 
unnatural dignity on the wearers. Sometimes they evince so 
surprising a knowledge of mythology, in the travesties they as- 
sume, that one might suppose them still believers in its fictions. 
Most frequently, however, they ridicule the various ranks of 
society with a pleasantry truly original : the nation is now a 
thousand times more distinguished by its sports than by its his- 
tory. Italian lends itself so easily to all kinds of playfulness, 
that it needs but a slight inflection of voice, a little difference of 
termination, lengthening or diminishing the words, to change the 
entire meaning of a sentence. The language comes with a pecu- 
liar grace from the lips of childhood. The innocence of that age, 
and the natural archness of the southern tongue, exquisitely con- 
trast each other. (22) One may almost call it a language that 
talks of itself, and always.seems more witty than its speakers. 

There is neither splendor nor taste in the carnival : its universal 
tumult assimilates it in the fancy with the bacchanalian orgies ; 
but in the fancy only; for the Romans are generally sober and 
serious enough — the last days of this fête excepted. The one 
makes such varied and sudden discoveries in their character, as 
have contributed to give them a reputation for cunning. Doubt- 
less, there is a great habit of feigning among people who have 
borne so many yokes ; but we must not always attribute their 
rapid changes of manner to dissimulation. Inflammable imagina- 
tion is as oft its cause. Reasoners may readily foresee their own 
actions; but all that belongs to fancy is unexpected: she over- 
leaps gradations ; a trifle may wound her, or that which ought to 
move her most be past by with indifference; she's her own world, 
and in it there is no calculating effects by causes. For instance, 
we wonder what entertainment the Roman nobles find in driving 
from one end of the Corso to the other for hours together, every 
day in the year, yet nothing breaks in on this custom. Among 
the masks, too, may be found wandering victims to ennui, packed 
up in the drollest of dresses, sad harlequins, and silent clowns, 
who satisfy their carnival conscience by merely seeking to divert 
themselves. In Rome, they have one assumption that nowher® 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


155 


else exists — maskers, who, in their own persons, copy the an- 
tique statues, and from a distance perfectly realize their beauty. 
Many of the women are losers by renouncing this disguise. 
Nevertheless, to behold life imitating motionless marble, however 
gracefully, strikes one with fear. The carriages of the great and 
gay throng the streets ; but the charm of these festivities is their 
saturnalian confusion : all classes are mingled ; the gravest magis- 
trates ride amoDg the masks with almost official assiduity. All 
the windows are decorated, and all the world out of doors : the 
pleasure of the populace consists not in their spectacles nor their 
feasts; they commit no excess, but revel solely in the delight of 
mixing freely with their betters, who, on their parts, are as di- 
verted at finding themselves thrown among those beneath them. 
Only the refined and delicate pleasures that spring from research 
and education can build up barriers between different ranks. 
Italy, as hath been said, is more distinguished by universal talent 
than by its cultivation among the aristocracy. Therefore, during 
the carnival, all minds and all manners blend : the shouting 
crowds, that indiscriminately shower their bonbons on the passers- 
by, confound the whole nation pell-mell, as if no social order re- 
mained. Corinne and Nevil arrived in the midst of this uproar : 
at first it stunned them ; for nothing appears stranger than such 
activity of noisy enjoyment, while the soul is pensively retired 
within herself. They stopped in thS Piazza del Popolo, to ascend 
the amphitheatre near the obelisk, thence to overlook the horse- 
racing : as they alighted from their calash, the Count d’Erfeui! 
perceived them, and took Oswald aside, saying : “ How can you 
show yourself thus publicly returning from the country with Co- 
rinne ? You will commit her, and then what can you do?” “ I 
think I shall not commit her,” returned he,. “by showing my 
affection; if I do, I shall be but too happy, in the devotion of my 
life” — “Happy!” interrupted d’Erfeuil, “don’t believe it ! one 
can only be happy in becoming situations. Society, do what wo 
will, has a great influence; and what society would disapprove 
ought never to be attempted.”’ “ Then,” replied Oswald, “ our 
own thoughts and feelings are to guide us less than the words of 


156 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


others. If it were our duty thus constantly to follow the million, 
what need has any individual with a heart or a soul ? Providence 
might have spared us from such superfluities.” — “Very philo- 
sophical,” replied the Count; “ but such maxims ruin a man ; 
and when love is over, he is left to the censure of the world. 
Plighty as you think me, I would not risk it, on any account. 
We may allow ourselves the little freedoms and good-natured jests 
of independent thinkers, hut in our actions such liberties become 
serious.” — “And are not love and happiness serious considera- 
tions ?” asked Nevil. “That is nothing to the purpose: there 
are certain established forms which you cannot brave without 
passing for an eccentric ; for a man — in fact — you understand me 
— unlike other men.” Lord Nevil smiled, and without either 
pain or displeasure rallied d’Erfeuil on his frivolous severity : he 
rejoiced to feel, for the first time, that on a subject which had 
cost him so much, the Count’s advice had not the slightest power. 
Corinne guessed what had past, but Oswald’s smile restored her 
composure ; and this conversation tended but to put them both in 
spirits for the fête. Nevil expected to see a race like those of 
England ; but was surprised to learn that small Barbary steeds 
were about to make the contest of speed without Tiders. This is 
a very favorite sport with the Homans. 

When it was about to commence, the crowd ranged themselves 
on each side of the street. The Place, lately so thronged, was 
emptied in a minute : every one hurried to the stands which sur- 
rounded the obelisks; while a multitude of black heads and eyes 
were turned towards the barrier from which the barbs were to 
start. They appeared, without bridle or saddle, their backs 
covered by bright-hued stuffs: they were led by well-dressed 
grooms, passionately interested in their success. As the animals 
reach the barrier, their eagerness for release is almost uncontrol- 
lable : they rear, neigh, and paw the earth, as if impatient for the 
glory they are about to win, without the aid or guidance of man. 
Their prancing, and the rapturous cry of “ Boom, room !” as the 
barrier falls, have a perfectly theatrical effect. The grooms are 
all voice and gesture, as long. as their steeds remain in sight; the 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


157 


creatures are as jealous as mankind of one another; the sparks 
fly beneath their feet; their manes float wildly on the breeze; 
and such is their desire to reach the goal, that some have fallen 
there dead. To look on these free things, all animated by per- 
sonal passion, is astounding — as if one beheld Thought itself 
flying in that fine shape. The crowd break their ranks as the 
horses pass, and follow them in tumult. The Venetian palace 
ends the race; then may be heard exclamations of disappointment 
from those whose horses have been beaten ; while he whose dar- 
ling has deserved the greatest prize throws himself on his knees 
before the victor, thanking and recommending him to St. An- 
thony, (23) patron of the brute creation, with an enthusiasm as 
seriously felt as it is comically expressed. The races usually con- 
clude the day. Then begins another kind of amusement, less 
attractive, but equally loud. The windows are illuminated ; the 
guards leave their posts, to share the general joy. Every one 
carries a little torch, called moccolo , and every one tries to extin- 
guish his neighbour’s, repeating the word “ ammazare” (kill), 
with formidable vivacity. “ Kill the fair princess ! let the Lord 
Abbot be killed !” The multitude, reassured by the interdiction 
of horses and carriages at that hour, pour forth from every quar- 
ter : all is turmoil and clamor; yet,' as night advances, this ceases 
by degrees; the deepest silence succeeds. The remembrance of 
this evening is like that of a confused vision, which, for awhile, 
changed every dreamer’s existence, and made the people forget 
their toil, the learned their studies, and the nobles their sloth. (24) 


CHAPTER II. 

Oswald, since his misfortunes, had never regained sufficient 
courage voluntarily to hear music. He dreaded those ravishing 
sounds, so agreeable to melancholy, but which prove so truly in 
jurious while we are weighed down -by real calamities. Music 
revives the recollections it would appease. When Corinne sang, 
14 


158 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


Oswald listened to the words she pronounced ; gazed on her ex 
pressive features, and thought of nothing but her. Yet if, of an 
evening, in the streets, he beard many voices united to sing the 
sweet airs of celebrated composers, as is often the case in Italy, 
though inclined to pause, he soon withdrew, alarmed by the strong 
yet indefinite emotion which renewed his sorrows. But a concert 
was about to be given at the theatre of Home, concentrating the 
talents of the first singers in Italy. Corinne asked Nevil to ac- 
company her thither : he consented, hoping that her presence 
would soften all the pangs he must endure. On entering her box, 
she was immediately recognized ; and a remembrance of her coro- 
nation, adding to the interest she usually created, all parts of the 
house resounded with applause, and cries of “ Viva Corinne !” 
The musicians themselves, electrified by this unanimous sensation ; 
sent forth strains of victory ; for triumph, of whatever kind, 
awakens in our recollection “ the pomp and circumstance of glo- 
rious war.” Corinne was much moved by these testimonies of 
admiring affection. The indescribable impression always made 
by a human mass, simultaneously expressing the same sentiment, 
so deeply touched her heart, that she could not restrain her tears ; 
her bosom heaved beneath her dress; and Oswald, with a sense of 
pique, whispered, “ You must not, Madame, be torn from such 
success; it outvalues love, since it makes your heart beat thus;” 
he then retired to the back of the box, without waiting for her 
answer. In one instant had he swept away all the pleasure which 
she had owed to a reception prized most because he was its wit- 
ness. 

Those who have not heard Italian singing can form no idea of 
music. The human voice is soft and sweet as the flowers and 
skies. This charm was made but for such a clime : each reflect 
the other. The world is the work of a single thought, expressed 
in a thousand different ways. The Italians have ever devotedly 
loved music. Dante, in his Purgatory, meets the best singer of 
his day, and asks him for one of his delicious airs. The entranced 
spirits forget themselves as they hear it, until their guardian re- 
calls them to the truth. The Christians, like the Pagans, believe 


159 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

the empire of music to extend beyond the grave : of all the fine 
arts, none act so immediately upon the soul : the others direct it 
towards such or such ideas : but this alone addresses the very 
source of life, and transforms the whole being at once, humanly 
speaking, as Divine Grace is said to change the heart. Among 
all our presentiments of futurity, those to which melody gives 
birth are not the least worthy of reverence. Even the mirth ex- 
cited by buffo singing is not vulgar, but fanciful ; beneath it lie 
poetic reveries, such as spoken wit never yet created. Music is 
so volatile a pleasure — we are so sensible that it escapes from us 
3ven as we enjoy it — that it always leaves a tender impression on 
the mind; yet, when expressive of grief, it sheds gentleness even 
over despair. The heart beats more quickly to its regular mea- 
sure, and, reminding us of life’s brevity, bids us enjoy what we 
can : the silent void is filled ; you feel within yourself the active 
energies that fear no obstacle from without. Music doubles our 
computation of our own faculties, and makes us feel capable of 
the noblest efforts ; teaches us to march towards death with enthu- 
siasm, and is happily powerless to explain any base or artful sen- 
timent. Music lifts from the breast the weight it so often feels 
beneath serious affections, and which we take for the heaviness of 
life, so habitual is its pressure : we hang on such pure sounds till 
we seem to discover the secrets of the Eternal, and penetrate the 
mysteries of nature : no words can explain this ; for words but 
copy primitive sensations, as prose translators follow poetry. 
Looks alone resemble its effect : the long look of love, that gra- 
dually sinks into the breast, till one’s eyes fall, unable to support 
so vast a bliss, lest this ray from another’s soul should con- 
sume us. 

The admirable union of two voices perfectly in tune produces 
an ecstasy that cannot be prolonged without pain : it is a blessing 
too great for humanity, which vibrates like an instrument broken 
beneath too perfect a harmony. Oswald had remained perversely 
apart from Corinne during the first act of the concert ; but when 
the duets began in low voices, accompanied by the notes of cla- 
rionets and hautboys, purer even than their own, Corinne veiled 


160 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


hcr face, absorbed by emotion; she wept without suffering, and 
loved without dread ; the image of Oswald was in her bosom ; but 
a host of thoughts wandered too far to be distinct, even to herself. 
It is said that a prophet, in one moment, explored seven regions 
of heaven. Whoever can thus conceive the all which an instant 
may contain must have heard sweet music beside the object of his 
love. Oswald felt its power ; his resentment decreased ; the ten- 
derness of Corinne explained and justified everything; he drew 
near her; she heard him breathing close by, at the most enchant- 
ing period of this celestial harmony : it was too much ; the most 
pathetic tragedy could not havq so overwhelmed her as did the 
sense of their both being equally penetrated by the same sounds, 
at the same instant : each fresh tone exalted the consciousness. 
The words sung were nothing ; now and then allusions to love 
and death induced some recollection ; but oftener did music alone 
suggest açd realize the formless wish, as doth some pure and tran- 
quil star, wherein we seem to see the image of all we could desire 
on earth. “Let us go,” sighed Corinne: “I feel fainting.” — 
“What is it, love?” asked Oswald, anxiously: “you are pale. 
Come into the air with me.” They went together : her strength 
returned, as she leaned upon his arm ; and she faltered forth, 

“Dear Oswald, lam about to leave you for eight days.” 

“What say you?” he cried. — “Every year,” she answered, “I 
spend Passion week in a convent, to prepare for Easter.” Oswald 
could not oppose, aware that most of the Homan ladies devoted 
themselves to pious severities at that time, even if careless of reli- 
gion during the rest of the year ; but he remembered that Co- 
rinne’s faith and his own were not the same : they could not pray 
together. “ Why are you not my countrywoman ?” he exclaimed. 
“ Our souls have but one country,” she replied — « True,” he 
said; “yet I cannot the less feel everything that divides us.” 
And this coming absence sc dismayed him, that neither to Co 
rinne, nor the friends who now joined them, could he speak 
another word that evening. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


161 


CHAPTER III. 

Oswald called at Corinne’s house early next day, in some 
uneasiness : her maid gave him a note, announcing her mistress’s 
retirement to the convent that morniDg, and that she could not 
see him till after Good Friday. She confessed that she had not 
the courage to tell him the whole of this truth the night before. 
Oswald was struck as by an unexpected blow. The house in 
which he had always found Corinne now appeared sadly alone; 
her harp, bool^s, drawings, all her household gods were there, but 
she was gone. A shudder crept through his veins ; he thought 
on the chamber of his father, and sunk upon a seat. “ It may 
be,” he cried, “ that I shall live to lose her too — that animated 
mind, that warm heart, that form so brilliantly fresh; the bolt 
may strike, and the tomb of youth is mute as that of age. What 
an illusion, then, is happiness ! Inflexible Time, who watches 
ever o’er his prey, may tear it from us in a moment. Corinne ! 
Corinne ! why didst thou leave me ? Thy magic alone can still 
my memory : dazzled by the hours of rapture passed with thee — 
but now — I am alone. I am again my wretched, wretched self!” 
He called upon Corinne with a desperation disproportionate to 
such brief absence, but attributable to the habitual anguish of his 
heart. The maid, Theresina, heard bis groans, and gratified by 
this regret for her mistress, re-entered, saying, “My Lord, for 
your consolation, I will even betray a secret of my lady’s : I hope 
she will forgive me. Come to her bedroom, and you shall see 
your own portrait !” — “ My portrait !” he repeated. — “ Yes ; she 
drew it from memory, and has risen, for the last week, at five in 
the morning, to have it finished before she went to the convent.” 
The likeness was very strong, and painted with perfect grace. 
This pledge, indeed, consoled him ; facing it was an exquisite 
* Madonna, before which Corinne had formed her oratory. This 
“ love and religion mingled,” exists in Italy under circumstances 
far more extraordinary; for the image of Oswald was associated 
but with the purest hopes of his adorer. 

14 * 


162 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Yet thus to place it near so divine an emblem, and to prepare 
herself for a convent by a week of such occupation, were traits 
that rather characterized Corinne’s country than herself. Italian 
women are devout from sensibility, not principle; and nothing 
was more hostile to Oswald’s opinions than their manner of 
thinking on this subject; yet how could he blame Corinne, while 
receiving so touching a proof of her affection ? His looks strayed 
tenderly through this chamber, where he now stood for the first 
time. At the head of the bed he beheld the miniature of an aged 
man, evidently not an Italian ; two bracelets hung near it, one 
formed by braids of black and of silver hair, the çÿher of beauti- 
fully fair tresses, that, by a strange chance, reminded him of 
Lucy Edgarmond’s, which he had attentively remarked three 
years since. Oswald did not speak ; but Theresina, as if to banish 
any jealous suspicion, told him, “that during the eleven years she 
had lived with her lady she had always seen these bracelets, which 
she knew contained the hair of Corinne’s father, mother, and sis- 
ter.” — “ Eleven years !” cries Oswald, “ you were then — ” he 
checked himself, blushing at the question he had begun, and pre- 
cipitately left the house that he might escape further temptation. 
He frequently turned back to gaze on the windows, and when he 
lost sight of them he felt all the misery of solitude. That even- 
ing he went to an assembly, in search of something to divert his 
thoughts; for in grief, as joy, reverie can only be indulged by 
those at peace with themselves ; but society was insupportable : 
he was more than ever convinced that for him Corinne alone had 
lent it charms, by the void which her absence rendered it now. 
He attempted to chat with the ladies, who replied by those insipid 
phrases, which, explaining nothing, are so convenient for those 
who have something to conceal. He saw groups of men, who, 
by their voices and gestures, seemed warmly discussing some im- 
portant topic : he drew near, and found the matter of their dis- 
course as despicable .as its manner. He mused over this causeless, * 
aimless vivacity, so frequently found in large parties; — though 
Italian mediocrity is a good sort of animal enough, with but little 
jealous vanity, much regard for superior minds, and, if fatiguing 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


163 


them by dulness, at least never wounding them by pretence 
Such was the society that, a few days since, Oswald had found sg 
interesting. The slight obstacles which it opposed to his conver- 
sation with Corinne; her anxiety to be near him, as soon as 
she had been sufficiently polite to others ; the intelligence existing 
between them on subjects suggested by their company; her pride, 
in speaking before him, to whom she indirectly addressed remarks, 
ho alone could fully understand. All this had varied his even- 
ings : every part of these same halls brought back the pleasant 
hours which had persuaded him that there might be some amuse- 
ment even at an assembly. 11 Oh !” he sighed, as he left it, u here, 
as elsewhere, she alone can give us life; let me fly rather to some 
desert spot till she returns. I shall less sadly feel her absence, 
where naught is near me that resembles pleasure ” 


BOOK X. 

PASSION WEEK. 


CHAPTER I. 

Oswald passed next day in the gardens of the monasteries; 
going first to that of the Carthusians, and paused, ere he entered, 
to examine two Egyptian lions at a little distance from its gate. 
There is something in their physiognomy belonging neither to 
animals nor to man : it is as if two heathen gods had been repre- 
sented in this shape. Chartreux is built on the ruins of Diocle- 
tian’s baths ; and its church is adorned by the granite pillars 
which were found there. The monks show this place with much 
zeal : they belong to the world but by their interest in its ruins. 
Their way of life presupposes either very limited minds or the 
most exalted piety The monotony of their routine recalls that 
celebrated line — 

“ Time o’er wrecked worlds sleeps motionless.” 


164 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 

Their life seems but to be employed in contemplating death. 
Quickness of thought, in so uniform an existence, would be the 
crudest of tortures. In the midst of the cloister stand two 
cypresses, whose heavy blackness the wind can scarcely stir. 
Near them is an almost unheard fountain, slow and chary; — fit 
hour-glass for a seclusion in which time glides so noiselessly. 
Sometimes the moon’s pale glimmer penetrates these shades — its 
absence or return forming quite an event; and yet these monks 
might have found all the activity of war insufficient for their 
spirits, had they been used to it. What an inexhaustible field 
for conjecture we find in the combinations of human destiny ! 
What habits are thrust on us by chance, forming each individual’s 
world and history. To know another perfectly, would cost the 
study of a life. What, then, is meant by knowledge of mankind ? 
Governed they may be by each other, but understood by God 
alone. 

Oswald went next to the monastery of Bonaventure, built on 
the ruins of Nero’s palace : and where so many crimes had reigned 
remorselessly, poor friars, tormented by conscientious scruples, 
doom themselves to fasts and stripes for the least omission of duty. 
11 Our only hope,” said one, “ is, that when we die, our faults will 
not have exceeded our penances.” Nevil, as he entered, stumbled 
over a trap, and asked its purpose. “ It is through that we aro 
interred,” answered one of the youngest, already a prey to the 
bad air. The natives of the South fear death so much, that it is 
wondrous to find there these perpetual mementoes : yet nature is 
often fascinated by what she dreads; and such an intoxication fills 
the soul exclusively. The antique sarcophagus of a child serves 
as the fountain of this institution. The boasted palm of Home is 
the only tree of its garden ; but the monks pay no attention to 
external objects. Their rigorous discipline allows them no mental 
liberty; their downcast eyes and stealthy pace show that they 
have forgotten the use of free will, and abdicated the government 
of self— an empire which may well be called a ‘ heritage of woe !’ 
This retreat, however, acted but feebly on the mind of Oswald. 
Imagination revolts at so manifest a desire to remind it of death 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


165 


in every possible way. When such remembrancers are unexpected, 
when nature, and not man, suggests them, the impression is far 
more salutary. Oswald grew calmer as he strayed through the 
garden of San Giovanni et Paulo, whose brethren are subjected to 
exercises less austere. Their dwelling lords over all the ruins of 
old Porno. What a site for such asylum ! The recluse consoles 
himself for his nothingness, in contemplating the wrecks of ages 
past away. Oswald walked long beneath the shady trees, so rare 
in Italy : sometimes they intercepted his view of the city, only to 
augment the pleasure of his next glimpse at it. All the steeples 
now sounded the Ave Maria — 

* * * “ squilla de lontano 

Che paja il giorno pianger, che si muore.” — Dante. 

“ The bell from far mourneth the dying day.” The evening prayer 
serves to mark all time. “ I will meet you an hour before, or an 
hour after Ave Maria,” say the Italians, so devoutly are the eras 
of night and day distinguished. Oswald then enjoyed the spec- 
tacle of sunset, as the luminary sank slowly amid ruins, and 
seemed submitting to decline, even like the works of man. This 
brought back all his wonted thoughts. The image of Corinne 
appeared too promising, too hopeful, for such a moment. His 
soul sought for its father’s, in the home of heavenly spirits. This 
animated the clouds on which he gazed, and lent them the sublime 
aspect of his immortal friend : he trusted that his prayers at last 
might call down some beneficent pity, resembling a good father’s 
benediction. 


CHAPTER II. 

Oswald, in his anxiety to study the religion of the country, 
resolved to hear some of its preachers, during Passion week. He 
counted the days that must elapse ere his reunion with Corinne ; 
while she was away, he could endure no imaginative researches 


166 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


He forgave his own happiness while beside her; but all that 
charmed him then would have redoubled the pangs of his exile. 

It is at night, and by half-extinguished tapers, that the preach- 
ers, at this period, hold forth. All the women are in black, to 
commemorate the death of Jesus : there is something very affect 
ing in these yearly weeds, that have been renewed for so many 
centuries. One enters the noble churches with true emotion ; their 
tombs prepare us for serious thought, but the preacher too often 
dissipates all this in an instant. His pulpit is a somewhat long 
tribunal, from one end to the other of which he walks, with a 
strangely mechanical agitation. He fails not to start with some 
phrase to which, at the end of the sentence, he returns like a 
pendulum ; though, by his impassioned gestures, you would think 
him very likely to forget it : but this is a systematic fury, “ a fit 
of regular and voluntary distraction,” often seen in Italy, and in- 
dicating none but superficial or artificial feelings. A crucifix is 
hung in the pulpit; the preacher takes it down, kisses, presses it 
in his arms, and then hangs it up again, with perfect coolness, as 
soon as the pathetic passage is got through. Another method for 
producing effect is pulling off and putting on his cap, with incon- 
ceivable rapidity. One of these men attacked Voltaire and Rous- 
seau on the skepticism of the age. He threw his cap into the 
middle of the rostrum, as the representative of Jean Jacques, and 
then cried: “Now, philosopher of Geneva, what have }ou to say 
against my arguments ?” He was silent for some seconds, as if ex 
pecting a reply ; but, as the cap said nothing, he replaced it on 
his head, and terminated the discourse by adding: “ Well, since 
I’ve convinced you, let us say no more about it.” These uncouth 
scenes are frequent in Rome, where real pulpit oratory is ex- 
tremely rare. Religion is there respected as an all-powerful law; 
its ceremonies captivate the senses ; but its preachers deal less in 
morals than in dogmas that never reach the heart. Eloquence, in 
this, as in many other branches of literature, is there devoted to 
common-places, that can neither describe nor explain. A new 
thought raises a kind of rebellion in minds at once so ardent and 
so languid, that they need uniformity to calm them ; and love it 


CORINNE: OR ITALY. 


167 


for the repose it brings. There is an etiquette in these sermons, 
by which words take precedence of ideas ; and this order would 
be deranged, if the preacher spoke from his own heart, or searched 
his soul for what he ought to say. Christian philosophy, which 
finds analogies between religion and humanity, is as little under- 
stood in Italy, as philosophy of every other sort. To speculate on 
religion is deemed almost as scandalous as scheming against it; 
bo wedded are all men to mere forms and old usages. The wor- 
ship of the Virgin is particularly dear to southern people; it 
seems allied to all that is most chaste and tender in their love of 
woman ; but every preacher treats this subject with the same ex- 
aggerated rhetoric, unconscious that his gestures perpetually turn 
it into ridicule. There is scarcely to be heard, from one Italian 
pulpit, a single specimen of correct accent, or natural delivery. 

Oswald fled from this most fatiguing of inflictions — that of af- 
fected vehemence — and sought the Coliseum, where a Capuchin 
was to preach in the open air, at the foot of an altar, in the centre 
of the inclosure which marks the road to the cross. What a theme 
were this arena, where martyrs succeeded gladiators : but there 
was no hope of hearing it dilated on by the poor Capuchin, who 
knew nothing of the history of man, save in his own life. With- 
out, however, coming there to hear his bad sermon, Oswald felt 
interested by the objects around him. The congregation was prin- 
cipally composed of the Camaldoline fraternity, at that time attired 
in gray gowns that covered both head and body, leaving but two 
little openings for the eyes, and having a most ghostly air. Their 
unseen faces were prostrated to the earth; they beat their breasts; 
and when their preacher threw himself on his knees, crying: 
“ Mercy and pity V* they followed his example. As this appeal 
from wretchedness to compassion, from Earth to Heaven, echoed 
through the classic porticos, it was impossible not to experience 
a deeply pious feeling in the soul’s inmost sanctuary. Oswald 
shuddered; he remained standing, that he might not pretend to 
a faith which was not his own ; yet it cost him an effort to forbear 
from this fellowship with mortals, whoever they were, thus hum- 


168 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


bling themselves before their God ; for, does not an invocation to 
heavenly sympathy equally become us all ? 

The people were struck by his noble and foreign aspect, but not 
displeased with his omitting to join them ; fo,r no men on earth 
can be more tolerant than the Romans. They are accustomed to 
persons who come among them but as sight-seers; and, either 
from pride or indolence, never seek to make strangers participate 
in their opinions. It is a still more extraordinary fact, that, at this 
period especially, there are many who take on themselves the 
strictest punishments ; yet, while the scourge is in their hands, 
the church-door is still open, and every stranger welcome to enter 
as usual. They do nothing for the sake of being looked at, nor 
are they frightened from anything because they happen to be 
seen ; they proceed towards their own aims, or pleasures, without 
knowing that there is such a thing as vanity, whose only aim and 
pleasure consists in the applause of others. 


CHAPTER III. 

Much has been said of Passion week in Rome. A number of 
foreigners arrive during Lent, to enjoy this spectacle; and as the 
music at the Sixtine Chapel, and the illumination of St. Peter’s, 
are unique of their kind, they naturally attract much curiosity, 
which is not always satisfied. The dinner served by the Pope to 
the twelve representatives of the Apostles, whose feet he bathes, 
must recall solemn ideas ; yet a thousand inevitable circumstances 
often destroy their dignity. All the contributors to these customs 
are not equally absorbed by devotion ; ceremonies so oft repeated 
become mechanical to most of their agents; the young priests 
hurry over the service with a dexterous activity anything but im- 
posing. All the mysteries that should veil religion are dissipated, 
by the attention we cannot help giving to the manner in which 
each performs his function. The avidity of the one party for the 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 169 

meat set before them, the indifference of the other to their pray- 
ers and genuflections, deprive the whole of its due sublimity. 

The ancient costumes still worn by the ecclesiastics ill accord 
with their modern heads. The bearded Patriarch of the Greek 
Church is the most venerable figure left for such offices. The old 
fashion, too, of men courteseying like women, is dangerous to de- 
corum. The past and the present, indeed, rather jostle than har- 
monize ; little care is taken to strike the imagination, and none to 
prevent its being distracted. A worship so brilliantly majestic in 
its externals is certainly well fitted to elevate the soul ; but more 
caution should be observed, lest its ceremonies degenerate into 
plays, in which the actors get by rote what they have to do, and 
at what time; when to pray, when to have done praying; when to 
kneel, and when to rise. Court rules introduced at church re- 
strain that soaring elasticity which alone can give man hope of 
drawing near his Maker. 

The generality of foreigners observe this ; yet few Romans but 
yearly find fresh pleasure in these sacred fêtes. It is a peculiarity 
in Italian character, that versatility of taste leads not to incon- 
stancy; and that vivacity removes all necessity for truth; it 
deems everything more grand, more beautiful than reality. The 
Italians, patient and persevering even in their amusements, let 
imagination embellish what they possess, instead of bidding them 
crave what they have not; and as elsewhere vanity teaches men 
to seem fastidious, in Italy, warmth of temperament makes it a 
pleasure to admire. 

After all the Romans had said to Nevil of their Passion week, 
he had expected much more than he had found. He sighed for 
the august simplicity of the English Church, and returned home 
discontented with himself, for not having been affected by that 
which he ought to have felt. In such cases we fancy that the 
soul is withered, and fear that we have lost that enthusiasm, 
without which reason itself would serve but to disgust us with 
life. 


15 


170 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY 


CHAPTER TY. 

Good Friday restored all the religious .emotions of Lord 
Nevil; he was about to regain Corinne — the sweet hopes of love 
blended with that piety, from which nothing save the factitious 
career of the world can entirely wean us. He sought the Sixtine 
Chapel, to hear the far-famed Miserére. It was yet light enough 
for him to see the pictures of Michael Angelo — the Day of Judg- 
ment, treated by a genius worthy so terrible a subject. Dante 
had infected this painter with the bad taste of representing mytho- 
logical beings in the presence of Christ ; but it is chiefly as demons 
that he has characterized these Pagan creations. Beneath the 
arches of the roof are seen the prophets and heathen priestesses, 
called as witnesses by the Christians (teste David cum Sibylla ); 
a host of angels surround them. The roof is painted as if to 
bring heaven nearer to us ; but that heaven is gloomy and repul- 
sive. Day scarcely penetrates 'the windows, which throw on the 
pictures more shadows than beams. This dimness, too, enlarges 
the already commanding figures of Michael Angelo. The fune- 
real perfume of incense fills the aisles, and every sensation pre- 
pares us for that deeper one which awaits the touch of music. 
While Oswald was lost in these reflections, he beheld Corinne, 
whom he had not expected yet to see, enter that part of the chapel 
devoted to females, and separated by a grating from the rest. She 
was in black ; pale with abstinence, and so tremulous, as she per- 
ceived him, that she was obliged to support herself by the balus- 
trade. At this moment the Miserére commenced. Voices well 
practised in this pure and antique chant rose from an unseen 
gallery ; every instant rendered the chapel darker. The music 
seemed to float in the air; no longer in the voluptuously impas- 
sioned strains which the lovers had heard together a week since, 
but such as seemed bidding them renounce all earthly things. 
Corinne knelt before the grate. Oswald himself was forgotten. 
At such a moment she would have loved to die. If the separa- 
tion of soul and body were but pauglcss; *f an angel would bear 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


171 


away thought and feeling on his wings — divine sparks, that shall 
return to their source — death would be then the heart’s spontane- 
ous act, an ardent prayer most mercifully granted. The verses of 
this psalm are sung alternately, and in very contrasted styles. 
The heavenly harmony of one is answered by murmured recita- 
tive, heavy and even harsh, like the reply of worldings to the 
appeal of sensibility, or the realities of life defeating the vows of 
generous souls : when the soft choir reply, hope springs again, 
again to be frozen by that dreary sound which inspires not terror, 
but utter discouragement ; yet the last burst, most reassuring of 
all, leaves just the stainless and exquisite sensation in the soul 
which we would pray to be accorded when we die. The lights 
are extinguished ; night advances ; the pictures gleam like pro- 
phetic phantoms through the dusk; the deepest silence reigns: 
speech would be insupportable in this state of self-communion ; 
every one steals slowly away, reluctant to resume the vulgar inte- 
rests of the world. 

Corinne followed the procession to St. Peter’s, as yet illumined 
but by a cross of fire : this type of grief shining alone through 
the immense obscure, fair image of Christianity amid the shades 
of life ! A wan light falls over the statues on the tombs. The 
liviug, who throng these arches, appear but pigmies, compared 
with the effigies of the dead. Around the cross is a space cleared, 
where the Pope, arrayed in white, with all the cardinals behind 
him, prostrate themselves to the earth, and remain nearly half an 
hour profoundly mute. None hear what they request; but they 
are old, going before us towards the tomb, whither we must follow. 
Grant us, 0 God ! the grace so to ennoble age, that the last days 
of life may be the first of immortality. Corinne, too, the young 
and lovely Corinne, knelt near the priests; the mild light 
weakened not the lustre of her eyes. Oswald looked on her as 
an entrancing picture, as well as an adored woman. Her orison 
concluded, she rose; her lover dared not approach, revering the 
meditations in which he believed her still plunged ; but she came 
to him, with all the rapture of reunion; — happiness was so shed 
ever her every action, that she received the firreetings of her 


172 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

friends with unwonted gayety. St. Peter’s, indeed, had suddenly 
become a public promenade, where every one made appointments 
of business or of pleasure. Oswald was astonished at this power 
of running from one extreme to another ; and, much as he re- 
joiced in the vivacity of Corinne, he felt surprised at her thus 
instantly banishing all traces of her late emotions. He could not 
conceive how this glorious edifice, on so solemn a day, could be 
converted into the Café of Rome, where people meet for amuse- 
ment; and seeing Corinne encircled by admirers, to whom she 
chatted cheerfully, as if no longer conscious where she stood, he 
felt some mistrust as to the levity of which she might be capable. 
She read his thoughts, and hastily breaking from her party, took 
his arm to walk the church with him, saying : “ I have never 
spoken to you of my religious sentiments ; let me do so now ; 
perhaps I may thus disperse the clouds I see rising in your mind ” 


CHAPTER V. 

“ The difference of our creeds, my dear Oswald,” continued 
Corinne, “ is the cause of the unspoken displeasure you cannot 
prevent me from detecting. Your faith is serious and severe, ours 
lively and tender. It is generally believed that my church is the 
most rigorous ; it may be so, in a country where struggles exist 
between the two; but here we have no doctrinal dissensions. 
England has experienced many. The result is, that Catholicism 
here has taken an indulgent character, such as it cannot have 
where Reformation is armed against it. Our religion, like that 
■kf the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, and makes 
part of all the joys of life; while yours, established in a country 
where reason predominates over fancy, is stamped with a moral 
sternness that will never be effaced. Ours calls on us in the name 
of love ; yours in that of duty. Your principles are liberal ; our 
dogmas bigoted ; yet our orthodox despotism has some fellowship 
with private circumstances; and your religious liberty exacts 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 173 

respect for its own laws, without any exception. It is true that 
our monastics undergo sad hardships, but they choose them freely ; 
their state is a mysterious engagement between God and man. 
Among the secular Catholics here, love, hope, and faith are the 
chief virtues, all announcing, all bestowing, peace. Far from our 
priests forbidding us to rejoice, they tell us that we thus evince 
our gratitude for the gifts of Heaven. They enjoin us to prac- 
tise charity and repentance, as proofs of our respect for our faith ? 
and our desire to please its Founder; but they refuse us not the 
absolution we zealously implore ; and the errors of the heart meet 
here a mercy elsewhere denied. Hid not our Saviour tell the 
Magdalene that much should be pardoned to the greatness of her 
love ? As fair a sky as ours echoed these words : shall we then 
despair of our Creator’s pity ?” — “ Corinne,” returned Nevil, 
u how can I combat arguments so sweet, so needful to me ? and 
yet I must. It is not for a day I love Corinne ; to her I look for 
a long futurity of content and virtue. The purest religion is that 
which sacrifices passion to duty, as a continual homage to the 
Supreme Being. A moral life is the best offering. We degrade 
the Creator by attributing to him a wish that tends not towards 
our intellectual perfection. Paternity, that godlike symbol of 
faultless sway, seeks but to render its children better and happier 
How, then, suppose that God demands of man actions that have 
not the welfare of man for their object? what confused notions 
spring from the habit of attaching more importance to religious 
ceremonies than to active worth ! You know that it is just after 
Passion week the greatest number of murders are committed in 
Borne. The long fast has, in more senses than one, put its vota- 
ries in possession of funds, and they spend the treasures of their 
penitence in assassinations. The most disgusting criminal here 
scruples to eat meat on Fridays ; convinced that the greatest of 
crimes were that of disobeying the ordiances of the Church : all 
conscience is lavished on that point; as if the Divinity were like 
one of this world’s ruiers, who prefers flattering submission to 
faithful service. Is this courtier-like behavior to be substituted 
for the respect we owe the Eternal, as the source and the recom- 
15 * 


174 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


pense of a forbearing and spotless life ? The external demonstra* 
tions of Italian Catholicism excuse the soul from all interior piety. 
The spectacle over, the feeling ends — the duty is done; no one 
remains, as with us, long occupied by thoughts born of strict and 
sincere self-examination." 

“You are severe, my dear Oswald," said Corinne; “ this is not 
the first time I have remarked it. If religion consists but in 
morality, how is it superior to philosophy and reason ? And 
what piety could we truly feel, if our principal end was that of 
stifling all the feelings of the heart? The Stoics knew almost as 
much as ourselves of austere self-denials ; but something more due 
to Christianity is the enthusiasm which weds it with all the affec- 
tions of the soul — the power of loving and sympathizing. It is 
the most indulgent worship, which best favors the flight of our 
spirits towards Heaven. What means the parable of the Prodigal 
Son, if not, that true love of God is preferred even above the most 
exact fulfilment of duty? He quitted the paternal roof; hia 
brother remained beneath it. He had plunged into all the pleasures 
of the world ; his brother had never, for an instant, broken the 
regularity of domestic life ; but the wanderer returned, all tears 
and his beloved father received him with rejoicing ! Ah ! doubt 
less, among the mysteries of nature, love is all that is left us oi 
our heavenly heritage ! Our very virtues are often too constitu- 
tional for us always to comprehend what is right, or what is the 
secret impulse that directs us. I ask my God to teach me to 
adore him. I feel the effect of my petition by the tears I shed. 
But, to sustain this disposition, religious exercises are more neces- 
sary than you may think ; a constant intercourse with the Divi- 
nity; daily habits that have no connection with the interests of 
life, but belong solely to the invisible world. External objects 
are of great assistance to piety. The soul would fall back upon 
herself, if music and the arts reanimated not that poetic genius, 
which is also the genius of religion. The vulgarest man, while 
he prays, suffers, or trusts in Heaven, would express himself like 
Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had clothed his thoughts 
in words. There are but two distinct classes of men born those 


175 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 

who feel enthusiasm, and those who deride it ; all the rest is the 
work of society. One class have no words for their sentiments ; 
the other know what they ought to say to hide the void of their 
hearts; but the stream flowed from the rock at the command of 
Heaven ; even so gush forth true talent, true religion, true love. 
The pomp of our worship ; those pictures of kneeling saints, whose 
looks express continual prayer; those statues placed on tombs, as 
if to awaken one day with the dead ; our churches, with their 
lofty aisles — all seem intimately connected with devout ideas. I 
love this splendid homage, made by man to that which promises 
him neither fortune nor power; which neither rewards nor 
punishes, save by the feelings it inspires; I grow proud of my 
kind, as I recognize something so disinterested. The magnifi- 
cence of religion cannot be too much increased. I love this pro- 
digality of terrestrial gifts to another world ; offerings from time 
to eternity; sufficient for the morrow are the cares required by 
human economy. Oh ! how I love what would be useless waste, 
were life nothing better than a career of toil for despicable gain ! if 
this earth be but our road to heaven, what can we do better than so 
elevate our souls that they feel the Infinite, the Invisible, the 
Eternal, in the midst of the limits that surround them? Jesus 
permitted a weak, and, perhaps, repentant woman, to steep his 
head in precious balms, saying to those who bade her turn them 
to more profitable use ; * Why trouble ye the woman ? the poor ye 
have always with ye, .but me ye have not always.” Alas ! what- 
ever is good or sublime on this earth is ours but for awhile ; we 
have it not always. Age, infirmities, and death soon sully the 
heavenly dewdrop that only rests on flowers. Dear Oswald, let 
us, then, blend love, religion, genius, sunshine, odors, music, 
and poetry. There is no Atheism but cold selfish baseness. 
Christ has said : 1 When two or three are gathered together in my 
name, I will be amongst them and what, 0 God ! is assembling 
in thy name, if we do not so while enjoying the charms of nature, 
therein praising and thanking thee for our life ; above all, when 
some other heart, created by thy hands, responds entirely to oui 
own ?” 


176 


CORINNE, OR ITALY. 


So celestial an inspiration animated the countenance of Corinne, 
that Oswald could scarce refrain from falling at her feet in that 
august temple. He was long silent, delightedly musing over her 
words, and reading their meaning in her looks : he could not, 
however, abandon a cause so dear to him as that he had under- 
taken; therefore resumed: “ Corinne, hear a few words more 
from your friend : his heart is not seared; no, no, believe me, if 
T require austerity of principle and action, it is because it gives 
our feelings depth and duration ; if I look for reason in religion — 
that is, if I reject contradictory dogmas, and human means for 
affecting the soul — it is because I see the Divinity in reason as in 
enthusiasm ; if I cannot allow man to be deprived of any of his 
faculties, it is because they are all scarce sufficient for his compre- 
hension of the truths, revealed to him as much by mental re- 
flection as by heartfelt instinct — the existence of a God, and the 
immortality of the soul. To these,. solemn thoughts, so entwined 
with virtue, what can be added, that, in fact, belongs to them ? 
The poetic zeal to which you lend so many attractions, is not, I 
dare assert, the most salutary kind of devotion ! Corinne, how 
can it prepare us for the innumerable sacrifices that duty exacts ? 
It has no revelation, save in its own impulses; while its future 
destiny is seen but through clouds. Now we, to whom Christi- 
anity renders it clear and positive, may deem such a sensation 
our reward, but cannot make it our sole guide. You describe the 
existence of the blest, not that of mortals ; a religious life is a 
combat, not a hymn. If we were not sent here to repress our 
own and others’ evil inclinations, there would, as you say, be no 
distinctions save between apathetic and ardent minds. But man 
is more harsh and rugged than you think him ; rational piety and 
imperious duty alone can check his proud excesses. Whatever 
you may think of exterior pomp, and numerous ceremonies, 
dearest ! the contemplation of the universe and its Author, will 
ever be the only worship which so fills the heart that self, 
knowledge can find in it nothing either idle or absurd. The 
dogmas that wound my reason, also chill my enthusiasm. Doubt- 
less, the world is in itself an incomprehensible mystery, and he 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


177 


were most unwise who refused to believe whatever he could not 
explain; but contradictions are always the work of man. Tho 
secrets of God are beyond our mental powers, but not opposed to 
them. A German philosopher has said : ‘ I know but two lovely 
things in the universe — the starry sky above our heads, and the 
sense of duty within our hearts/ In sooth, all the wonders of 
creation are included in these. Far from a simple religion wither- 
ing the heart, I used to think, ere I knew you, Corinne, that 
such alone could concentrate and perpetuate its affections. I 
have witnessed the most austere purity of conduct from a man of 
inexhaustible tenderness. I have seen it preserve, in age, a 
virgin innocence which the storms of passion must else have 
blighted. Repentance is assuredly commendable, and I, more 
than most men, had need rely on its efficacy ; but repeated peni- 
tence wearies the soul ; it is a sentiment that can but once re- 
generate us. Redemption accomplished, cannot be renewed; 
accustomed to the attempt, we lose the strength of love; for it 
requires strength of mind to love God constantly. I object to 
the splendid forms which here act so powerfully on the fancy, 
because I would have imagination modest and retiring, like the 
heart : emotions extorted from it, are always less forcible than 
those that spring spontaneously. In the Cevennes, I heard a 
Protestant minister preach one eve among the mountains : he 
addressed the tombs of the Frenchmen, banished by their brothers, 
and promised their friends that they should meet them in a better 
world : a virtuous life, he said, would secure that blessing, adding, 
( Do good to man, that God may heal the wounds within your 
breasts !' He wondered at the inflexibility with which the creature 
of a day dared treat his fellow-worm ; and spoke of that terrible 
death, which all conceive, but none fully expound. In short, 
he said naught that was not touching, true, and perfectly in 
harmony with nature. The distant cataract, the sparkling star- 
light, seemed expressing the same thoughts in other ways. There 
was the magnificence of nature, the only one whose spectacles 
offend not the unfortunate ; and this imposing simplicity affected 


178 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

the soul as it was never affected by the most brilliant of cere- 
monies.” 

On Easter Sunday, Oswald and Corinne went to the Place of 
St. Peter’s, to see the Pope, from the highest balcony of the church, 
call down Heaven’s blessing on the earth : as he pronounced 
TJrbi et orbi — on the city and the world — the people knelt, and 
our lovers felt all creeds alike. Religion links men with each 
other, unless self-love and fanaticism render it a cause of jealousy 
and hate. To pray together, in whatever tongue or ritual, is the 
most tender brotherhood of hope and sympathy that men can 
contract in this 'life. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Easter was over, yet Corinne spoke not of accomplishing her 
promise, by confiding her history to Nevil. Hurt by this silence, 
he one day told her that he intended paying a visit to their vaunted 
Naples. She understood his feelings, and proposed to make the 
journey with him ; hoping to escape the avowal he expected from 
her, by giving him a proof of love which ought to be so satisfac- 
tory : besides, she thought that he would not take her with him, 
unless he designed to become hers for life. Her anxious looks 
supplicated a favorable reply. He could not resist, though sur- 
prised at the simplicity with which she made this offer ; yet he 
hesitated for some time, till, seeing her bosom throb, and her eyes 
fill, he consented, without considering the importance of such a 
resolution. Corinne was overwhelmed with joy : at that moment 
she implicitly relied on his fidelity. The day was fixed, and the 
sweet perspective of travelling together banished every other idea. 
Not an arrangement they made for this purpose but was a source 
of pleasure. Happy mood ! in which every detail of life derives 
a charm from some fond hope. Too soon comes the time when 
each hour fatigues; when each morning costs us an effort, to 
support our walking, and drag on the day to its close. As Nevil 


oorinne; or Italy. 


179 


ieffc Corinne, in order to prepare everything for their departure, 
the Count d’Erfeuil called on her, and learned her plan. “ You 
cannot think of it!” he said: “make a tour with a man who 
has not even promised to be your husband ! what will become of 
you if he turns deserter ?” — “ I should become,” replied she, “ but 
what I must be, in any situation, if' he ceased to love me, the 
most unhappy person in the world.” — “ Yes ; but if you had 
done nothing to compromise your name, you would still remain 
yourself.” — “ Myself!” she repeated, “when the best feelings of 
my soul were blighted, and my heart broken?” — “The public 
would not guess that; and with a little caution you might pre- 
serve its opinion.” — “And why humor that opinion, unless it 
were to gain one merit the more in the eyes of love?” — “We 
may cease to love,” answered the Count, “ but we do not cease 
to live in need of society.” — “ If I could think,” she exclaimed, 
“that the day would come when Oswald’s affections were no 
longer mine all, I should have ceased to love already. What is 
love, if it can calculate and provide against its own decay? No; 
like devotion, it dissipates all other interests, and delights in an 
entire sacrifice of self.” — “And can a person of your mind turn 
her brain with such nonsense ?” asked d’Erfeuil : “ it is certainly 
to the advantage of us men, that women think as you do ; but 
you must not lose your superiority; it ought to be in some way 

useful.” “ Useful !” cried Corinne; “ Oh ! I shall owe it enough, 

if it teaches me the better to appreciate the tender generosity of 
Nevil.” — “Nevil is like other men,” rejoined the Count; “he 
will return to his country, resume his career there, and be rea- 
sonable at last; you will expose your reputation most imprudently 
by going to Naples with him.” — “I know not his intentions,” 
she answered; “and, perhaps, it would have been better to have 
reflected ere I loved him ; but now — what matters one sacrifice 
more ? Does not my life depend on his love ? Indeed, I feel 
gome solace in leaving myself without one resource ; there never 
is any for wounded hearts, but the world may sometimes think 
that such remains; and I love to know that even in this respect 
my misfortune would be complete, if Nevil abandoned mo.” — 


180 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


“And does he know how far you commit yourself foi his S3.ke ■ 
u No; I have taken great pains, as he is but imperfectly acquainted 
with the customs of this country, to exaggerate the liberty it 
permits. Give me your word that you will say nothing to him 
on this head. I wish him to be ever free; he cannot constitute 
my felicity by giving up any portion of his own. His love is the 
flower of my life; and neither his delicacy nor his goodness 
could reanimate it, if once faded. [ conjure you, then, deal 
Count, leave me to my fate. Nothing that you know of the 
heart’s affections can suit my case : all you say is right, and very 
applicable to ordinary persons and situations; but you innocently 
do me great wrong in judging me by the common herd, for whom 
there are so many maxims ready made. I enjoy, I suffer, in my 
own way, and it is of me alone that those should think who seek 
to influence my welfare.” The self-love of d’Erfeuil was a little 
stung by the futility of bis advice; and, by the mark of prefer- 
ence shown to Nevil, he kuew that he himself was not dear to 
Corinne, and that Oswald was; yet that all this should be so 
publicly evinced was somewhat disagreeable to him. The suc- 
cess of any man, with any woman, is apt to displease even his 
best friends. 11 1 see I can do nothing here,” he added ; “ but, 
when my words are fulfilled, you will remember me; meantime I 
shall leave Rome : without you and Nevil I should be ennuied to 
death. I shall surely see you both again in Italy or Scotland; 
for I have taken a fancy to travel, while waiting for better things. 
Forgive my counsel, charming Corinne, and ever depend on iny 
devotion to you.” She thanked and parted from him with regret. 
She had known him at the same time with Oswald; that was a 
link she liked not to see broken ; but she acted as she had told 
d’Erfeuil she should do, Some anxiety still troubled Oswald’s 
joy : he would fain have obtained her seoret, that he might be 
certain they were not to be separated by any invincible obstacle ; 
but she declared she would explain nothing till they were at 
Naples; and threw a veil over what might be said of the step 
she was taking. Oswald lent himself to this illusion : love, in a 
weak, uncertain character, deceives by halves, reason remains 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 181 

hall’ clear, and present emotions decide which of the two halves 
shall become the whole. The mind of Nevil was singularly ex- 
pansive and penetrating; yet he could only judge himself cor- 
rectly in the past; his existing situation appeared to him ever in 
confusion. Susceptible alike of rashness and remorse, of passion 
and timidity, he was incapable of understand?ng his own state, 
until events had decided the combat. When the friends of Co- 
rinne were apprised of her plan they were greatly distressed, 
especially Prince Castel Forte, who resolved to follow her as soon 
as possible. He had not the vanity to oppose her accepted lover, 
but he could not support the frightful void left by the absence of 
his fair friend ; he had no acquaintance whom he was not wont 
to meet at her house ; he visited no other. The society she at- 
tracted round her must be dispersed by her departure, so wrecked 
that it would soon be impossible to restore it. He was little 
accustomed to live among his family; though extremely intelli- 
gent, study fatigued him ; the day would have been too heavy 
but for his morn and evening visit to Corinne. She was going; 
he could but guess why; yet secretly promised himself to rejoin 
her, not like an exacting lover, but as one ever ready to console 
her, if unhappy, and who might have been but too sure that such 
a time would come. Corinne felt some melancholy in loosening 
all the ties of habit; the life she had led in Rome was agreeable 
to her; she was the centre round which circled all its celebrated 
artists and men of letters — perfect freedom had lent charms to 
her existence : what was she to be now ? if destined to be Os- 
wald’s wife, he would take her to England : how should she be 
received there ? how restrain herself to a career so different from 
that of her last six years? These thoughts did but pass over her 
mind; love for Oswald effaced their light track. She saw him, 
heard him, and counted the hours but by his presence or absence. 
Who can refuse the happiness that seeks them ? Corinne, of all 
women, was the least forethoughted ; nor hope nor fear was made 
for her; her faith in the future was indistinct, and in this respect 
her fancy did her as little good as harm. The morning of her 
departure Castel Forte came to her, with tears in his eyes 
16 


182 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


“Will you return no more to Rome?” he asked. — “My God > 
yes !” she cried ; “ we shall he back in a month.” — “But, if you 
wed Lord Nevil, you will leave Italy.” — “Leave Italy!” she 
sighed. — “Yes; the country where we speak your language, and 
understand you so well ; where you are so vividly admired ; and 
for friends, Corinne, where will you be beloved as you are here ? 
where find the arts, the thoughts that please you ? Can a single 
attachment constitute your life ? Do not language, customs, and 
manners, compose that love of country which inflicts such terrible 
grief on the exile ?” — “ What say you ?” cried Corinne : “ have 
I not experienced it? Did not that very grief decide my fate?” 
She looked sadly on the statues that decked her room ; then on 
the Tiber, rolling beneath her windows; and the sky whose 
smile seemed inviting her to stay ; but at that moment Oswald 
crossed the bridge of St. Angelo on horseback. “ Here he is !” 
cried Corinne ; she had scarcely said the words ere he was beside 
her. She ran before him, and both, impatient to set forth, took 
their places in the carriage; yet Corinne paid a kind adieu to 
Castel Forte ; but it was lost among the shouts of postilions, the 
neighing of horses, and all the bustle of departure — sometimes 
sad, sometimes intoxicating — just as fear or hope may be inspired 
by the new chances of coming destiny. 


BOOK XI. 

NAPLES, AND THE HERMITAGE OF ST. SALVADOR. 

CHAPTER I. 

Oswald was proud of bearing off his conquest ; though usually 
disturbed in his enjoyments by reflections and regrets, he felt less 
so now : not that he was decided, but that he did not trouble him* 
self to be so; he yielded to the course of events, hoping to be 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


183 


borne towards the haven of his wishes. They crossed the Cam- 
pagna d’Albano, where still is shown the supposed tomb of the 
Horatii and Curatii. (25) They passed near the Lake of Nerni, 
and the sacred woods that surround it, where it Î 3 said Hippolitus 
was restored to life by Diana, who permitted no horses ever to 
enter it more, in remembrance of her young favorite’s misfortune. 
Thus, in Italy, almost at every step, history and poetry add to 
the graces of nature, sweeten the memory of the past, and seem 
to preserve it in eternal youth. Oswald and Corinne next tra- 
versed the Pontine Marshes, fertile and pestilent at once, unen- 
livened by a single habitation. Squalid-looking men put to the 
horses, advising you to keep awake while passing through this air, 
as sleep is ever the herald of death. Buffaloes, of the most stupid 
ferocity, draw the plough, which imprudent cultivators sometimes 
employ upon this fatal land; and the most brilliant sunshine 
lights up the whole. Unwholesome swamps in the north are in- 
dicated by their frightful aspects ; but in the most dangerous 
countries of the south nature deceives the traveller by her serenest 
welcome. If it be true that slumber is so perilous on these fens, 
the drowsiness their heat produces adds still more to our sense of 
the perfidy around us. Nevil watched constantly over Corinne. 
When she languidly closed her eyes, or leaned her head on the 
shoulder of Theresina, he awakened her with inexhaustible terror ; 
and, silent as he was by nature, now found inexhaustible topics 
for conversation, ever new, to prevent her submitting for an in- 
stant to this murderous sleep. May we not forgive the heart of 
woman for the despairing regret with which it clings to the days 
when she was beloved ? when her existence was so essential to 
that of another, that its every instant was protected by his arm? 
What isolation must succeed that delicious time ! Happy they 
whom the sacred link of marriage gently leads from love to friend 
ship, without one cruel moment having torn their hearts. 

At last our voyagers arrived at Terracina, on the coast border- 
ing the kingdom of Naples. There the south indeed begins, and 
receives the stranger in its full magnificence. The Campagna 
Felicé seems separated from the rest of Europe, not only by the 


184 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


sea, but by the destructive land which must be crossed to reach 
it. It is as if nature wished to keep her loveliest secret, and 
therefore rendered the road to it so hazardous. Not far from Ter- 
racina is the promontory chosen by poets as the abode of Circea, 
behind rises Mount Anxur, where Theodoric, king of the Goths, 
built one of his strongest castles. There are few traces of these 
invading barbarians left, and those, being mere works of destruc- 
tion, are confounded with the works of time. The northern 
nations have not given Italy that warlike aspect which Germany 
retains. It seems as if the soft earth of Ausonia could not keep 
the fortifications and citadels that bristle through northern snows. 
Rarely is a Gothic edifice or feudal castle to be found here. The 
antique Romans still reign over the memory even of their con- 
querors. The whole of the mountain above Terracina is covered 
with orange and lemon trees, that delicately embalm the air. 
Nothing in our own climes resemble the etfect of this perfume : 
it is like that of some exquisite melody, exciting and inebriating 
talent into poetry. The aloes and large-leaved cactus that abound 
here remind one of Africa’s gigantic vegetation, almost fearfully; 
they seem belonging to a realm of tyranny and violence. Every- 
thing is strange as another world, known but by the songs of 
antique bards, who, in all their lays, evinced more imagination 
than truth. As they entered Terracina, the children threw into 
Corinne’s carriage immense heaps of flowers, gathered by the way- 
side, or on the hills, and strewn at random, so confident are they 
in the prodigality of nature. The wagons that bring the harvest 
from the fields are daily garlanded with roses : one sees and hears, 
besides these smiling pictures, the waves that rage unlashed by 
storms against the rocks, eternal barriers that chafe the ocean’s 
pride. 

“E non udite ancor come risuona 
II roco ed alto fremito marino?” 

“And hear you not still how resounds 
The hoarse and deep roar of the sea?” 

This endless motion, this aimless strength, renewed eternally, 
whose cause and termination are alike unknown to us, draws us 


CORINNE; OR, IT A. L Y. 


185 


to the shore whence so grand a spectacle may be seen, till we feel 
a fearful desire to rush into its waves, and stun our thoughts amid 
their tumultuous voices. 

Towards evening all is calm. Corinne and Nevil wandered 
slowly forth : they stepped on flowers, and scattered their sweets 
as they pressed them. The nightingale rests on the rose-bushes, 
and blends the purest music with the richest scents. All nature's 
charms seem mutually attracted; but the most entrancing and 
inexpressible of all is the mildness of the air. In contemplating 
a fine northern view, the climate always qualifies our pleasure. 
Like false notes in a concert, the petty sensations of cold and 
damp distract attention ; but in approaching Naples you breathe 
BO freely, feel such perfect ease ; with such bounteous friendship 
does nature welcome you, that nothing impairs your delight. 
Man's every relation, in our lands, is with society : in warm cli- 
mates his affections overflow among exterior objects. It is not 
that the south has not its melancholy — in what scenes can human 
destiny fail to awaken it? — but here it is unmixed with discon- 
tent or anxiety. Elsewhere life, such as it is, suffices not the 
faculties of man : here those faculties suffice not for a life whose 
superabundance of sensation induce a pensive indolence, for 
which those who feel it can scarce account. 

Luring the night the fire-flies fill the air : one might suppose 
that the burning earth thus let her flames escape in light: these 
insects wanton through the trees, sometimes pitching on their 
leaves ; and as the wind waves them, the uncertain gleam of these 
little stars is varied in a thousand ways. The sand also contains 
a number of small ferruginous stones, that shine through it, as if 
earth cherished in her breast the last rays of the vivifying sun. 
Everywhere is united a life and a repose that satisfy at once all 
the wishes of existence. 

Corinne yielded to the charm of such a night with heartfelt 
joy. Oswald could not conceal his emotion. Often he pressed 
her hand to his heart, then withdrew, returned, retired again, in 
respect for her who ought to be the companion of his life. She 
thought not of her danger : such was her esteem for him, that, 
16 * 


186 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


nad he demanded the gift of her entire being, she would not have 
doubted that such prayer was but a solemn vow to make her his 
wife; she was glad, however, that he triumphed over himself, 
and honored her by the sacrifice : her soul was so replete with 
love and happiness, that she could not form another wish. Oswald 
was far from this calm : fired by her beauty, he once embraced 
her knees with violence, and seemed to have lost all empire over 
his passion; but Corinne looked on him with so sweet a fear, as 
if confessing his power, in entreating him not to abuse it, that 
this humble defence extorted more reverence than any other could 
have done. They saw reflected in the wave a torch which some 
unknown hand bore along the beach, to a rendezvous at a neigh- 
boring house. “ He goes to his love,” said Oswald ; “and for 
me the happiness of this day will soon be over.” Corinne’s eyes, 
then raised to heaven, were filled with tears. Oswald, fearing he 
had offended her, fell at her feet, begging her to pardon the love 
which hurried him away. She gave him her hand, proposing 
their return together. “ Oswald,” she said, “you will, I am 
assured, respect her you love ; you know that the simplest request 
of yours would be resistless : it is you, then, who must answer 
for me; you, who would refuse me for your wife, if you bad ren- 
dered me unworthy to be so.” — “ Well,” said Oswald, “ since 
you know the cruel potency of your will over my heart, whence, 
whence this sadness ?” — “Alas !” she replied, “ I had told myself 
that my last moments passed with you were the happiest of my 
life; and, as I looked gratefully to heaven, I know not by what 
chance a childish superstition came back upon my mind. The 
moon was hid by a cloud of fatal aspect. I have always found 
the sky either paternal or angry ; and I tell you, Oswald, that 
to-night it condemns our love.” — “Dearest,” cried he, “the only 
auguries are good or evil actions ; and have I not this evening 
immolated my most ardent desires to virtue?” — “It is well,” 
added Corinne : “ if you are not involved in this presage, it may 
be that the stormy heaven menaces but myself.” 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


187 


CHAPTER II . 

They arrived at Naples by day, amid its immense population 
of animated idlers. They first crossed the Strada del Toledo, and 
saw the Lazzaroni lying on the pavement, or crouching in the 
wicker works that serve them for dwellings night and day; this 
savage state, blending with civilization, has a very original air. 
There are many among these men who know not even their own 
names ; who come to confession anonymously, because they cannot 
tell what to call the offenders. There is a subterranean grotto, 
where thousands of Lazzaroni pass their lives, merely going at 
noon to look on the sun, and sleeping during the rest of the day, 
while their wives spin. In climates where food and raiment are 
so cheap, it requires a very active government to spread sufficient 
national emulation ; material subsistence is so easy there that they 
dispense with the industry requisite elsewhere for our daily bread. 
Idleness and ignorance, combined with the volcanic air they im- 
bibe, must produce ferocity when the passions are excited ; yet 
these people are no worse than others; they have imagination 
which might prove the parent of disinterested action, and lead to 
good results, did their political and religious institutions set them 
good examples. 

The Calabrese march towards the fields they cultivate with a 
musician at their head, to whose tunes they occasionally dance, 
by way of variety. Every year is held, near Naples, a fête to our 
Lady of the Grotto, at which the girls dance to the sound of tam- 
bourines and castanets; and they often make it a clause in their 
marriage contracts, that their husbands shall take them annually 
to this fête. There was an actor of eighty, who for sixty years 
diverted the Neapolitans, in their national part of Polichinello. 
What immortality does the soul deserve which has thus long em- 
ployed the body ? The people of Naples know no good but plea- 
sure ; yet even such taste is preferable to barren selfishness. It 
is true that they love money inordinately; if you ask your way 
in the streets, the man addressed holds out his hand as soon as ho 


.88 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


has pointed — they are often too lazy for words ; but their love of 
gold is not that of the miser : they spend as they receive it. If 
coin were introduced among savages, they would demand it in the 
same way. Wbat the Neapolitans want most is a sense of dignity. 
They perform generous and benevolent actions rather from impulse 
than principle. Their theories are worth nothing; and public 
opinion has no influence over them ; but, if any here escape this 
moral anarchy, their conduct is more admirable than might be 
found elsewhere, since nothing in their exterior circumstances is 
favorable to virtue. Nor laws nor manners are there to reward 
or punish. The good are the more heroic, as they are not the 
more sought or better considered for their pains. With some ho- 
norable exceptions, the highest class is very like the lowest; the 
mind is as little cultivated in the one as in the other. Dress makes 
1 , he only difference. But, in the midst of all this, there is at bot- 
tom a natural cleverness and aptitude, which shows us what such 
a nation might become if the government devoted its powers to 
their mental and moral improvement. As there is little education, 
one finds more originality of character than of wit; but the dis- 
tinguished men of this country, such as the Abbé Galiani and 
Caraccioli, possessed, it is said, both pleasantry and reflection — 
rare union, without which either pedantry or frivolity must pre 
vent men from knowing the true value of things. In some re 
spects the Neapolitans are quite uncivilized ; but their vulgarity 
is not like that of others ; their very grossness strikes the imagi- 
nation. We feel that the African shore is near us. There is 
something Numidian in the wild cries we hear from all sides. 
The brown faces, and dresses of red or purple stuff, whose strong' 
colors catch the eye, those ragged cloaks, draped so artistically 
give something picturesque to the populace, in whom, elsewhere 
we can but mark the steps of civilization. A certain taste for 
ornament is here found, contrasted with a totd want of all that 
is useful. The shops are decked with fruit and flowers; some of 
them have a holyday look, that belongs neither to . private plenty 
nor public felicity ; but solely to vivacious fancy, which fain would 
feast the eye at any rate. The mild clime permits all kinds of 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


189 


laborers to work in the streets. Tailors there make clothes, and 
cooks pastry — these household tasks performed out of doors much 
augment the action of the scene. Songs, dances, and noisy sports 
accompany this spectacle. There never was a country in which 
the difference between amusement and happiness might be more 
clearly felt ; yet leave the interior for the quays, look on the sea, 
and Vesuvius, and you forget all that you know of the natives. 
Oswald and Corinne reached Naples while the eruption still lasted. 
By day it sent forth but a black smoke, which might be con- 
founded with the clouds; but in the evening, going to the balcony 
of their abode, they received a most unexpected shock. A flood 
of fire rolled down to the seas, its flaming waves imitating the 
rapid succession and indefatigable movement of the ocean’s bil- 
lows. It might be said that nature, though dividing herself into 
different elements, preserved some traces of her single and primi- 
tive design. This phenomenon really makes the heart palpitate. 
We are so familiarized with the works of heaven, that we scarcely 
notice them with any new sensation in our prosaic realms ; but the 
wonder which the universe ought to inspire, is suddenly renewed 
at the sight of a miracle like this; our whole being is agitated by 
its Maker’s power, from which our social connections have turned 
our thoughts so long ; we feel that man is not the world’s chief 
mystery ; that a strength independent of his own at once threatens 
and protects him by a law to him unknown. Oswald and Corinne 
promised themselves the pleasure of ascending Vesuvius, and felt 
an added delight in thinking of the danger they thus should brave 
together. 


CHAPTER III. 

Teere was at that time in the harbor an English ship of war, 
where divine service was performed every Sunday. The captain 
and other English persons then at Naples invited Lord Nevil to 
attend on the morrow. He promised; but while thinking whether 
he should take Corinne, or how she could be presented to hi? 


190 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


country women, he was tortured by anxiety. As he walked with 
her near the port next day, and was about to advise her not to 
go on board this vessel, a boat neared the shore, rowed by ten 
sailors, dressed in white, wearing black velvet caps, with the Leo- 
pard embroidered on them in silver. A young officer stepped on 
shore, and entreated Corinne to let him take her to the ship, 
calling her u Lady Nevil.” At that name she blushed, and cast 
down her eyes. Oswald hesitated a moment, then said in English, 
“ Come, my dear she obeyed. The sound of the waves made 
her thoughtful, as did the silence of the well-disciplined crew, 
who without one superfluous word or gesture, rapidly winged 
their bark over the element they had so often traversed. Corinne 
dared not ask Nevil what she was to anticipate; she strove to 
guess his projects, never hitting on what, at all times, was most 
probable that he had none, but let himself be borne away by 
every new occurrence. For a moment, she imagined that he was 
leading her to a Church of England chaplain, to make her his 
wife ; this thought alarmed more than it gratified her. She felt 
about to leave Italy for England, where she had suffered so much ; 
the severity of its manners returned to her mind, and not even 
love could triumph over her fear. How she would in other cir- 
cumstances have wondered at these fleeting ideas ! She mounted 
the vessel’s side ; it was arranged with the most careful neatness. 
Nothing was heard from its deck but the commands of the captain. 
Subordination and serious regularity here reigned, as emblems of 
liberty and order, in contrast with the impassioned turmoil of 
Naples. Oswald eagerly watched the impression this made on 
Corinne, yet he was often diverted from his attention by the love 
he bore his country. There is no second country for an English- 
man, except a ship and the sea. Oswald joined the Britons on 
board to ask the news, and talk politics. Corinne stood beside 
some English females who had come to hear prayers. They were 
surrounded by children, beautiful as day, but timid like their 
mothers, and not a word was spoken before the stranger. This 
restraint was sad enough for Corinne ; she looked towards fair 
Naples, thought of its flowery shore, its lively habits, and sighed. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


191 


Happily, Oswald heard her not ; on the contrary, seeing her seated 
among his sisters, as it were, her dark eyelashes cast down like 
their light ones, and in every way conforming with their customs, 
he felt a thrill of joy. Vainly does an Englishman take a tem- 
porary pleasure among foreign scenes and people; his heart inva- 
riably flies back to his first impressions. If you find him sailing 
from the antipodes, and ask whither he is going,, he answers, 
“ home,” if it is towards England that he steers. His vows, his 
sentiments, at whatever distance he may be, are always turned 
towards her.* They went below for divine service. Corinne 
perceived that her first conjecture was unfounded, and that Nevifs 
intentions were less solemn than she supposed; then she re- 
proached herself for having feared, and again felt all the embar- 
rassment of her situation ; for every one present believed her the 
wife of Lord Nevil, and she could say nothing either to confirm 
or to destroy this idea. Oswald suffered as cruelly. Such faults 
as weakness and irresolution are never detected by their possessor, 
for whom they take new names from each fresh circumstance ; 
sometimes he tells himself that prudence, sometimes that deli- 
cacy defers the moment of action, and prolongs his suspense. 
Corinne, in spite of her painful thoughts, was deeply impressed 
by all she witnessed*. Nothing speaks more directly to the soul 
than divine service on board ship, for which the noble simplicity 
of the Keformed Church seems particularly adapted. A young 
man acted as chaplain, with a firm, sweet voice ; his face bespoke 
a purity of soul ; he stood “ severe in youthful beauty,” a type of 
the religion fit to be preached amidst the risks of war. At cer- 
tain periods the English minister pronounced prayers, the last 
words of which were repeated by the whole assembly; these con- 

* Who that has one beloved object absent for any considerable space 
of time, can read this tribute from a foreigner without tears of pride and 
rapture, at the consciousness that whoever is left behind, though little 
valued while near, gains a sad importance as part of that home, that 
England, to which the dear one must long to return ? The natives of 
great continents may love their birth-places as well as we do ours ; but 
it cannot be in the same manner. — Tr. 


192 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

fused, yet softened tones, coming from various distances, reani- 
mated the interest of the whole. Sailors and officers alike knelt 
to the words, “ Lord, have mercy upon us !” The captain’s cut- 
lass hung by his side, suggesting the glorious union of humility 
before God, and courage among men, which renders the devotion 
of warriors so affecting. While all these brave fellows addressed 
the God of Hosts, the sea was seen through the ports ; the light 
sound of its now peaceful waves was audible, as if to say, “Your 
prayers are heard.” The chaplain concluded with a petition 
peculiar to English sailors : “And may God grant us the grace to 
defend our happy constitution abroad, and to find, on our return, 
domestic peace at home.” What grandeur is contained in these 
simple words ! The preparatory and continual study which the 
navy demands, the life led in those warlike and floating cloisters, 
the uniformity of their grave toils, is seldom interrupted, save by 
danger or death. Nevertheless, sailors often behave with extreme 
gentleness and pity towards women and children, if thrown on 
their care; one is the more touched by this, from knowing the 
heedless coolness with which they expose their lives in battle, and 
on the main where the presence of man seems something super- 
natural. Nevil and Corinne were again rowed on shore ; they 
gazed on Naples, built like an amphitheatre, thence to look on the 
spectacle of nature. 

As Corinne’s foot touched the shore, she could not check a 
sentiment of joy: had Oswald guessed this, he would have felt 
displeased, perhaps excusably; yet such displeasure would have 
been unjust, for he was passionately beloved, though the thought 
of his country always forced on his adorer the memory of events 
which had rendered her miserable. Her fancy was changeful : 
talent, especially in a woman, creates a zest for variety that the 
deepest passion cannot entirely supply. A monotonous life, even 
in the bosom of content, dismays a mind so constituted : without 
a breeze to fill our sails we may always hug the shore; but imagi- 
nation will stray, be sensibility never so faithful, at least till mis- 
fortune slays these trifling impulses, and leaves us but one 
thought, one only sorrow. 


193 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the awkward 
situation of her having been called Lady Nevil : he blamed him- 
self for not extricating her from it, and feared that she might 
suspect him of levity. He therefore began the long-desired ex- 
planation, by offering to relate his own history. “ I shall speak 
first,” he said, “ and your confidence will follow mine ?” — “ Doubt- 
less it ought / 1 replied Corinne, trembling; “you wish it — at what 
day — what hour? when you have spoken, I will tell all.” — “How 
sadly you are agitated!” said Oswald. “Will you always fear 
me thus, nor ever learn to trust my heart?” — “It must be,” sho 

answered : “ I have written it, and if you insist — to-morrow ” 

— “To-morrow we go to Vesuvius : you shall teach me to admire 
it ; and on our way, if I have strength enough, I will give you 
the story of my own doom : that shall precede yours, I am re- 
solved.” — “Well,” replied Corinne, “you give me to-morrow : I 
thank you for that one day more. Who can tell if, when I have 
opened my heart to you, you will remain the same ? How can I 
help trembling beneath such doubt ?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Our lovers commenced their route by the ruins of Pompeii. 
Both were silent, for the decisive moment now drew nigh ; and 
the vague hope so long enjoyed, so accordant with the clime, was 
about to give place to yet unknown reality. Pompeii is the most 
curious ruin of antiquity. In Rome, one hardly finds any wrecks, 
save those of public works, associated with the political changes 
of bygone centuries. In Pompeii, you retrace the private life of 
the ancients. The volcano which buried it in ashes preserved it 
from decay. No edifices, exposed to the air, could thus have 
lasted. Pictures and bronzes keep their primal beauty, while all 
domestic implements remain in overawing perfection. The 
amphoras are still decked for the morrow’s festival. The flour 
that was to have been kneaded into cakes is yet there : the re- 
17 


194 


CORINNE; Oft, ITALY. 


mains of a female are adorned for this interrupted fête, her flesh- 
less arm no longer filling the jewelled bracelet that yet hangs 
about it. Nowhere else can one behold such proofs of death’s 
abrupt invasion. The track of wheels is visible in the streets ; 
and the stone-work of the wells bears the marks of the cords that 
had worn away their edges by degrees. On the walls of the guard- 
room are seen the ill-formed letters and rudely-sketched figures 
which the soldiers had scrawled to beguile their time, while time 
himself was striding to devour them. When, from the midst of 
the cross-roads, you see all sides of the town, nearly as it existed 
of yore, you seem to expect that some one will come from these 
masterless dwellings : this appearance of life renders the eternal 
silence of the place still more appalling. Most of the houses are 
built of lava — and fresh lava destroyed them. The epochs of 
the world are counted from fall to fall. The thoughts of human 
beings, toiling by the light that consumed them, fills the breast 
with melancholy. How long it is since man first lived, suffered, 
and died ! Where can we find the thoughts of the departed ? do 
they still float around these ruins ? or are they gathered forever 
to the heaven of immortality? A few scorched manuscripts, 
which were partly unrolled at Portici, are all that is left us of 
these victims to earthquake and volcano. But in drawing near 
such relics we dread to breathe, lest w r e should scatter with their 
dust the noble ideas perhaps impressed on it. The public build 
ings, even of Pompeii, which was one of the smallest ItaliaL 
towns, are very handsome. The splendor of the ancients seemed 
always intended for the general good. Their private houses are 
small, and decked but by a taste for the fine arts. Their interiors 
possess agreeable pictures and tasteful mosaic pavements; on 
many of them, near the door-sill, is inlet the word Salve. This 
salutation was not surely one of simple politeness, but an invi- 
tation to hospitality. The rooms are remarkably narrow, with no 
windows towards the street, nearly all of them opening into a 
portico, or the marble court round which the rooms are constructed : 
in its centre is a simply elegant cistern. It is evident that the 
inhabitants lived chiefly in the open air, aud even received their 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


195 


friends there. Nothing can give a more luxurious idea of life 
than a climate which throws man into the bosom of natures 
Society must have meant something very different in such habits 
from what it is where the cold confines men within doors. We 
better appreciate the dialogues of Plato, while beholding the 
porticos beneath which the ancients passed half of their day. 
They were incessantly animated by the beauteous sky. Social 
order, they conceived, was not the barren combination of fraud 
and force, but a happy union of institutions that excite the facul- 
ties, and develop the mind, making man’s object the perfection 
of himself and his fellow-creatures. Antiquity inspires insatiable 
curiosity. The learned, employed solely on collections of names, 
which they call history, were surely devoid of all imagination. 
But to penetrate the past, interrogate the human heart through 
many ages ; to seize on a fact in a word, and on the manners or 
character of a nation in a fact; to re-enter the most distant time, 
in order to conceive how the earth looked in its youth, and in 
what way men supported the life which civilization has since 
rendered so complicated ; this were a continual effort of imagi- 
nation, whose guesses discover secrets that study and reflection 
cannot reveal. Such occupation was particularly attractive to 
Nevil, who often told Corinne that, if he had not nobler interests 
to serve in his own land, he could not endure to live away from 
this. We should, at least, regret the glory we cannot obtain. 
Forgetfulness alone degrades the soul, which can ever take refuge 
in the past, when deprived of a present purpose. 

Leaving Pompeii they proceeded to Portici, whose inhabitants 
beset them with loud cries of “ Come and see the mountain !” 
thus they designate Vesuvius. Has it need of name ? It is their 
glory, their country is celebrated as the shrine of this marvel. 
Oswald begged Corinne to ascend in a sort of palanquin to the 
Hermitage of St. Salvadore, which is half-way up, and the usual 
resting-place for travellers. He rode by her side to overlook her 
bearers; and the more his heart filled with the generous senti- 
ments such scenes inspire, the more he adored Corinne. The 
country at the foot of Vesuvius is the most fertile and best culti- 


196 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Vated of the kingdom most favored by Heaven "in all Europe. 
The celebrated Lacryma Christi vine flourishes beside land 
totally devastated by lava, as if nature here made a last effort, 
and resolved to perish in her richest array. As you ascend, you 
turn to gaze on Naples, and on the fair land around it — the sea 
sparkles in the sun as if strewn with jewels ; but all the splendors 
of creation are extinguished by degrees, às you enter the region 
of ashes and of smoke, that announces your approach to the 
volcano. The iron waves of other years have traced their large 
black furrows in the soil. At a certain height, birds are no longer 
seen; further on, plants become very scarce; then, even insects 
find no nourishment. At last, all life disappears; you enter the 
realm of death, and the slain earth's dust alone slips beneath your 
unassured feet. 


“Nè greggi, nè armenti 
Guida bifolco mai, guida pastore.” 

** Never doth swain nor cowboy thither lead the flocks or herds.” 

A hermit lives betwixt the confines of life and death. One 
tree, the last farewell to vegetation, stands before his door, and 
beneath the shade of its pale foliage are travellers wont to await 
the night ere they renew their course; for during the day the fires 
and lava, so fierce when the sun is set, look dark beneath his 
splendor. This metamorphose is in itself a glorious sight, which 
every eve renews the wonder that a continual glare might weaken. 
The solitude of this spot gave Oswald strength to reveal his se- 
crets; and, wishing to encourage the confidence of Corinne, he 
said : “ You would fain read your unhappy lover to the depth of 
his soul. Well, T will confess all. My wounds will reopen, I 
feel it ; but in the presence of immutable nature ought one tc 
fear the changes time can bring ?” 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


197 


BOOK XIL 

HISTORY OF LORD NEYIL. 


CHAPTER I. 

“I WAS educated in my paternal home, with a tenderness and 
virtue that I admire the more, the more I know of mankind. I 
have never loved any one more profoundly than I loved my 
father; yet I think, had I then known as I now do, how alone 
his character stood in the world, my affection would have been 
still more devoted. I remember a thousand traits in his life that 
seemed to me quite simple, because he found them so, and that 
melt me into tears now I can appreciate their worth. Self- 
reproach on our conduct to a dear object who is no more, gives 
an idea of what eternal torments would be, if Divine mercy deigned 
not to soothe our griefs. I was calmly happy with my father, but 
wished to travel ere I entered the army. There is, in my coun- 
try, a noble career open for eloquence; but I am even yet so timid, 
that it would be painful for me to speak in public ; therefore I 
preferred a military life, and certain danger, to possible disgust ; 
my self-love is in all respects more susceptible than ambitious. 
Men become giants when they blame me, and pigmies when they 
praise. I wished to visit France, where the revolution had just 
begun, which, old as was the race of man, professed to recom- 
mence the history of the world. My father was somewhat pre- 
possessed against Paris, which he had seen during the last years 
of Louis XV. ; and could hardly conceive how coteries were to 
change into a nation, pretence into virtue, or vanity into enthusi- 
asm. Yet he consented to my wishes, for he feared to exact any- 
thing, and felt embarrassed by his own authority, unless duty 
commanded him to exert it, lest it might impair the truth, the 
purity, of voluntary affection; and above all, he lived on being 
loved. In the beginning of 1791, when I had completed my 
17* 


198 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 

twenty-first year, he gave me six months’ leave of absence; 
and I departed to make acquaintance with the nation so near in 
neighborhood, so contrasted in habits, to my own. Methought I 
should never love it. I had all the prejudices of English pride 
and gravity. I feared the French raillery against all that is ten- 
der and serious. I detested that art of repelling impulse and 
disenchanting love. The foundation of this vaunted gayety ap- 
peared to me a sad one, for it wounded the sentiments I most 
cherished. I had not then met any really great Frenchmen, 
such as unite the noblest qualities with the most charming man- 
ners. I was astonished at the free simplicity which reigned in 
Parisian parties. The most important interests were discussed 
without either frivolity or pedantry, as if the highest thoughts had 
become the patrimony of conversation, and that the revolution of 
the whole world would but render the society of Paris more de- 
lightful. I found men of superior talents and education animated 
by the desire to please, even more than the wish to be useful ; 
seeking the suffrages of the salon after those of the senate, and 
living in female society rather to be applauded than beloved. 

“ Everything in Paris is well combined with reference to ex- 
ternal happiness. There is no restraint in the minutiae of life; 
selfishness is at heart, but not in appearance; active interests 
occupy you every day, without much benefit, indeed, but certainly 
without the least tedium. A quickness of conception enables 
men to express and comprehend by a word what would elsewhere 
require a long explanation. An imitative spirit, which must 
indeed, oppose all true independence, gives their intercourse an 
accordant complaisance, nowhere to be found besides ; in short, 
an easy manner of diversifying life and warding off reflection, 
without discarding the charms of intellect. To all these means 
of turning the brain, I must add their spectacles, and you will 
have some idea of the most social city in the world. I almost 
start at breathing its name in this hermitage, in the midst of a 
desert, and under impressions the extreme reverse of those which 
active population create; but I owe you a description of that 
place, and the effect it took upon myself. Can you believe, 


CORINNE; OR, 1 1* A L Y. 


199 


Corinne, gloomy and discouraged as you have known me, that I 
permitted myself to be seduced by this spirited whirlpool? I was 
pleased at having not a moment of ennui ; it would have been 
well if I could have deadened my power of suffering, capable as 
I was of love. If I may judge by myself, I should say that a 
thoughtful and sensitive being may weary of his own intensity; 
and that which woos him from himself awhile does him a service. 
It is by raising me above myself, that you, Corinne, have dissi- 
pated my natural melancholy; it was by depreciating my real 
value, that a woman of whom I shall have soon to speak be- 
numbed my internal sadness. Yet though I was infected by 
Parisian tastes, they would not long have detained me, had I not 
conciliated the friendship of a man, the perfect model of French 
character in its old loyalty, of French mind in its new cultivation. 
I shall not, my love, tell you the real names of the persons I 
must mention ; you will understand why, when you have heard 
me to the end. Count Raimond, then, was of the most illustrious 
birth ; he inherited all the chivalrous pride of his ancestors, and 
his reason adopted more philosophic ideas whenever they com- 
manded a personal sacrifice; he had not mixed actively in the 
revolution, but loved what was virtuous in either party. Courage 
and gratitude on one side, zeal for liberty on the other : whatever 
was disinterested pleased him ; the cause of all the oppressed 
seemed just to him ; and this generosity was heightened by his 
perfect negligence of his own life. Not that he was altogether 
unhappy, but his mind was so contrasted with general society, 
that the pain he had daily felt there detached him from it entirely. 
I was so fortunate as to interest him ; he sought to vanquish m3' 
natural reserve ; and, for this purpose, embellished our friendship 
by little artifices perfectly romantic : he knew of no obstacles to his 
doing a great service or a slight favor : he designed to settle for 
six months of the year in England, to be near me ; and I could 
hardly prevent his sharing with me the whole of his possessions. 
i I have but a sister/ he said, i married richly, so I am free to do 
what I please with my fortune. Resides, this revolution will 
turn out ill, and I may be killed; let me then enjoy what I have 


200 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


in looking on it as yours/ Alas ! the noble Raimond but toa 
well foresaw his destiny. 

(( When man is capable of self-knowledge, he is rarely deceived 
as to his own fate ; and presentiment is oft but judgment in dis- 
guise. Sincere even to imprudence, Raimond 1 wore his heart 
upon his sleeve / such a character was new to me ; in England, 
the treasures of the mind are not thus exposed ; we have even a 
habit of doubting those who display them ; but the expansive 
bounty of my friond afforded me enjoyments at once ready and 
secure. I had no suspicion of his qualities, even though I knew 
them all at our first meeting. I Telt no timidity with him ; nay, 
what was better, he put me at ease with myself. Such was the 
amiable Frenchman for whom I felt the friendship of a brother 
in arms, which we experience but in youth, ere we acquire one 
sentiment of rivalry — ere the unreturning wheels of time have 
furrowed the partitions betwixt the present and the future. 

11 One day Count Raimond said to me : 1 My sister is a widow. 
I confess, I am not sorry for it. I never liked the match. She 
accepted the hand of a dying old man, when we were both of us 
poor; for what I have has but lately been bequeathed to me. 
Yet, at the time, I opposed this union as much as possible. I 
would have no mercenary calculations prompt our acts, least of 
all the most important one of life ; still, she has behaved in an ex- 
emplary manner to the husband she never loved : that is nothing 
in the eyes of the world. Now that she is free, she will return 
to my abode. You will see her : she is very pleasing in the 
main, and you English like to make discoveries; for my part, I 
love to read all in the face at once. Yet your manner, dear Os- 
wald, never vexes me ; but from that of my sister I feel a slight 
restraint/ 

“ Madame d’ Arbigny arrived ; I was presented to her. In fea- 
tures she resembled her brother, and even in voice ; but in both 
there was a more retiring caution : her countenance was very 
agreeable, her figure all grace and faultless elegance. She said 
not a word that was unbecoming; failed in no species of attention ; 
and, without exaggerated politeness, flattered self-love by an 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


201 


' address which showed with what she was pleased, but never 
committed her. She expressed herself, on tender subjects, as if 
seeking to hide the feelings of her heart. This so reminded me 
of my own countrywomen, that I was attracted by it; methought, 
indeed, that she too often betrayed what she pretended to conceal, 
and that chance did not afford so many occasions for melting mo- 
ments as she passed off for involuntary. This reflection, however, 
flitted but lightly over my mind ; for what I felt beside her was 
both novel and delightful. I had never been flattered by any 
one. In England, we feel both love and friendship deeply; yet 
the art of insinuating ourselves into favor by bribing the vanity 
of others is little known. Madame d’ Arbigny hung on my every 
word. I do not think that she guessed all I might become; but 
she revealed me to myself by a thousand minute observations, the 
discernment of which amazed me. Sometimes I thought her 
voice and language too studiously sweet ; but her resemblance to 
the frankest of men banished these notions, and bound me to con- 
fide in her. One day I mentioned to him the effect this likeness 
had on me. He thanked me ; then, after a moment’s pause, said : 
< Yet our characters are not congenial.’ He was silent; but these 
words, and many other circumstances, have since convinced me 
that he did not wish to see his sister my wife : that she designed 
to be so, I detected not for awhile. My days glided on without 
a care : she was always of my opinion. If I began a subject, she 
agreed with it, ere explained ; yet, with all this meekness, her 
power over my actions was most despotic : she had a way of say- 
ing, ( Surely, you intend to do so and so;’ or, 1 You certainly can- 
not think of such a step as that.’ I feared that I should lose her 
esteem by disappointing her expectations. Yet, Corinne, believe 
me — f or I thought so ere I met you — it was not love I felt. I 
had never told her that I loved her, and was not sure whether 
such a daughter-in-law would suit my father; he had not antici- 
pated my marrying a Frenchwoman, and I could do nothing with- 
out his consent. My silence, I believe, displeased the lady ; for 
she had now and then fits of ill-temper — she called them low 
spirits, and attributed them to very affecting causes, though her 


202 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

countenance, if for a moment off her guard, wore a most irritated 
aspect. I fancied that these little inequalities might arise from 
our intercourse, with which I was not satisfied myself ; for it does 
one more harm to love by halves than to love with all one’s 
heart. 

u Raimond and I never spoke of his sister : it was the first con- 
straint that subsisted between us : but Madame d’Arbigny had 
conjured me not to make her the theme of my conversations with 
her brother; and, seeing me astonished at this request, added : 1 1 
know not if you think with me, but I can endure no third person, 
not even an intimate friend, to interfere with my regard for 
another. I love the secrecy of affection.’ The explanation pleased 
me, and I obeyed. At this time a letter arrived from my father, 
recalling me to Scotland. The half year had rolled by; France 
was every day more disturbed ; and he deemed it unsafe for a 
foreigner to remain there. This pained me much, though I felt 
its justice. I longed to see him again, yet could not tear myself 
from the Count and Madame d’Arbigny without regret. I sought 
her instantly, showed her the letter, and, while she read it, was 
too absorbed by sadness to mark the impression it made. I was 
merely sensible that she said something to secure my delay ; bade 
me write word that I was ill, and so tack away from my father’s 
oommands. I remember that was the phrase she used. I was 
about to reply that my departure was fixed for the morrow, when 
Raimond entered the room, and, hearing the state of the case, 
declared, with the utmost promptitude, that I ought to obey my 
parent without hesitation. I was struck by this rapid decision, 
expecting to have been pressed to stay. I would have resisted 
my own reluctance, but I did not like to have my purposed tri- 
umph talked of as a matter of course. For a moment I misinter- 
preted my friend : he perceived it, and took my hand, saying : 
‘ In three months I shall visit England ; why, then, should I keep 
you here? I have my reasons,’ he added, in a whisper; but his 
Bister heard him, and said, hastily, that he was right, that nc 
Englishman ought to be involved in the dangers of the revolution. 
1 now know it was not to such peril that the Count alluded; but 
he neither contradicted nor confirmed her explanation. I was 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 20 ‘J 

going, and he did not think it necessary to tell more. ‘ If 1 
could be useful to my native land, I should stay here/ he said ; 
‘ but you see it is no longer France ; the principles for which I 
loved it are destroyed. I may regret this soil, but shall regain 
my country when I breathe the same air with you/ 

“ How was I moved by this touching assurance of true friend- 
ship ! How far above his sister ranked Count Raimond at that 
moment in my heart. She guessed it; and the same evening 
appeared in quite a new character. Some guests arrived; she 
did the honors admirably; spoke of my departure as if it were 
in her eyes the most uninteresting occurrence. I had previously 
remarked, that she set a price on her preference, which prevented 
her ever letting others witness the favor she accorded me : but 
now this was too much. I was so hurt by her indifference, that 
I resolved to take leave before the party, and not remain alone 
with her one instant. She heard me ask her brother to let me 
see him in the morning, ere I started; and, coming to us, told 
me aloud that she must charge me with a -letter for a friend of 
hers in England ; then added, hastily, and in a low voice, ‘ You 
regret — you speak but to my brother : would you break my heart, 
by flying thus V In an instant she stepped back, and reseated 
herself among her visitants. I was agitated by her words, and 
should have stayed as she desired, but that Raimond, taking my 
arm, led me to his own room. When the company had dispersed, 
we suddenly heard strange sounds from Madame d’Arbigny’s 
apartment: he took no notice of them; but I forced him to 
ascertain their cause. We were told that she was very ill. I 
would have flown to her : but the Count obstinately forbade. 
‘Let us have no scene / he said; ‘in these affairs, women are 
best left to themselves/ I could not comprehend this want of 
feeling for a sister, so contrasted with his invariable kindness to 
me ; and I left him in an embarassment which somewhat chilled 
my farewell. Ah ! had I known the delicacy which would fain 
have baffled the captivations of a woman he did not believe 
formed to make me happy, could I have foreseen the events which 
were to separate us forever, my adieu would have bettor satisfied 
his soul and mine own. ” 


204 


CORINNE; OR, ITAL JT. 


CHAPTER II. 

Oswald ceased for some minutes. Corinne had listened sc 
tremblingly that she too was silent, fearful of retarding the mo- 
ment when he would renew his narrative. — “I should have been 
happy,” he continued, “ had my acquaintance with Madame 
d’Arbigny ended there — had I never more set foot in France. 
But fate, or, rather perhaps my own weakness, has poisoned my 
life forever. Yes, dearest love ! even beside you. I passed a 
year in Scotland with my father : our mutual tenderness daily 
increased. I was admitted into the sanctuary of that heavenly 
spirit; and, in the friendship that united us, tasted all the con- 
sanguine sympathies whose mysterious links belong to our whole 
beiug. I received most affectionate letters from Raimond, re- 
counting the difficulties he found in transferring his property, so 
as to join me; but his perseverance in that aim was unwearied. 
I loved him for it; but what friend could I compare with my 
father? The reverence I felt for him never checked my con- 
fidence. I put my faith in his words as in those of an oracle ; 
and the unfortunate indecision of my character was suspended 
while he spoke. 1 Heaven has formed us for a love of what is 
venerable/ says an English author. My father knew not, could 
not know, to what degree I loved him; and my fatal conduct 
might well have taught him to doubt whether I loved him at all. 
Yet he pitied me, while dying, for the grief his loss would inflict. 
Ah, Corinne! I draw near the recital of my woes; lend my cou- 
rage thy support, for in truth I need it ” — “My dear friend,” 
she answered, “be it some solace that you unveil your nobly 
sensitive heart before the being who most admires and loves you 
in the world.” Nevil proceeded : “He sent me to London on 
business ; and I left him without one warning fear, though never 
to see him again. He was more endearing than ever in our last 
conversation : it is said that the souls of the just, like flowers, 
breathe their richest balms at the approach of night. He em- 
braced me with tears, saying, that at his age all partings were 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 205 

Bolemn ; but I believed his life like mine : our souls understood 
each other so well; and I was too young to think upon his age. 
The fears and the confidence of strong affection are alike inexpli- 
cable : he accompanied me to the door of that old hall which I 
have since beheld desert and devastated, like my own heart. I 
had been but a week in London, when I received the cruel letter 
of which I remember every word : ‘ Yesterday, the 10th of Au- 
gust, my brother was massacred at the Tuileries, while defending 
his king. I am proscribed, and forced to fly, to hide from my 
persecutors. Raimond had taken all my fortune, with his own, 
to settle in England. Have you yet received it? or know you 
whom he trusted to remit it? I had but one line from him, 
written when the chateau was attacked, bidding me only apply to 
you, and I should know all. If you could come hither and re- 
move me, you might save my life. The English still travel France 
in safety ; but I cannot obtain a passport under my own name. 
If the sister of your hapless friend sufficiently interests you, my 
retreat may be learned at Paris of my relation, Monsieur Mal- 
tigues : but should you generously wish to aid me, lose not a mo- 
ment ; for it is said that war will shortly be declared between 
our two countries/ Imagine the effect this took on me ! my 
friend murdered, his sister in despair, their fortune, she said, in 
my hands, though I had not received the least tidings of it; add 
to these circumstances, Madame d’Arbigny’s danger, and belief 
that I could preserve her; it was impossible to hesitate. I sent 
a messenger to my father with her letter, and my promise to re- 
turn in a fortnight; then set forth instantly. By the most dis- 
tressing chance the man fell ill on the way, and my second letter, 
from Dover, reached my father before the first. Thus he knew 
of my flight, ere informed of its motives ; and ere the explana- 
tion came, had taken an alarm which could not be dissipated. I 
arrived at Paris in three days, and found that Madame d’Arbigny 
had retired to a provincial town sixty leagues off ; thither I fol- 
lowed her. We were both much agitated at meeting. She ap- 
peared more lovely in her distress than I had ever thought her — 
less artificial, less restrained. We wept together for her nobis 
18 


206 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

brother, and distracted country. I anxiously inquired as to lief 
fortune. She told me that she h; d no news of it; but in a few 
days I learned that the banker to whom Count Raimond confided 
it, had returned it to him ; and, what was more singular, a mer- 
chant of the town in which we were, who told me this by chance, 
assured me that Madame d’Arbigny never needed to have felt a 
moment's doubt of its safety. I could not understand this ; went 
to ask her what it meant; and found M. Maltigues, who, with 
the readiest coolness, informed me that he had just brought from 
Paris intelligence of the banker’s return, as, not having heard of 
him for a month, they had thought he was gone to England.* 
She confirmed her kinsman’s statements, and I believed them ; 
but, since, have recollected her pretexts for not showing me the 
note from Raimond, mentioned in her letter, and am now con- 
vinced that the whole was but a stratagem to secure me. It is 
certain that, as she was rich, no interested motives blended with 
her scheme ; but her great fault lay in using address where love 
alone was required, and dissimulating when candor would better 
have served the cause of her sentimental enterprise : she loved 
me as much as those can love, who preconcert not only their ac- 
tions but their feelings, and conduct an affair of the heart witn 
the policy of a state intrigue. I formerly declared that I would 
never marry without my father’s approval ; yet I could not for- 
bear betraying the transports her beauty and sadness excited. 
Her plan being to make me captive at any price, she let me per- 
ceive that she was not thoroughly resolved on repulsing my wishes. 
As I now retrace what passed between us, I am assured that she 
hesitated from motives quite independent of love and virtue ; nay, 
that their apparent struggles were but her own secret delibera- 
tions. I was constantly alone with her; and my delicacy could 
not long resist the temptation. She imposed on me all the duties, 
in yielding me all the rights of a husband; yet displayed more 
remorse, perhaps, than she really felt; and thus so bound me to 

* This is the less clear for being literal. I cannot comprehend how 
the banker's return should concern Madame d’Arbigny, if he had prs* 
viously restored Raim md’s fortune ; nor who possessed it. — Tr 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


207 


her, that I would fain have taken her to England, and implored 
my father’s consent to our union ; but she refused to quit France, 
unless as my wife. There she was wise, indeed ; hut, well know- 
ing my filial resolutions, she erred in the means she used to retain 
me in spite mine every duty. When the war broke out, my de- 
sire to leave France became stronger, and her obstacles to it 
multiplied. She could obtain no passport; and if I went alone, 
her reputation would be ruined ; nay, she should be doubly sus- 
pected, for her correspondence with me. This woman, so mild, 
so equable, in general, then gave way to a despair which perfectly 
overwhelmed me. She employed her wit and graces to please, 
her grief to intimidate me. Perhaps women are wrong in com- 
manding by tears, enslaving by the strength of their weakness ; 
yet, when they fear not to exert this weapon, it is nearly always 
victorious, at least for awhile. Doubtless, love is weakened by 
this sort of usurpation ; and the power of tears, too frequently 
exerted, chills the imagination j but, at that time, there were a 
thousand excuses for them in France. Madame d’Arbigny’s 
health, too, seemed daily to decrease : another terrible instrument 
of female tyranny is illness. Those who have not, like you, Co- 
rinne, a just reliance on their minds, or are not, like English- 
women, so proudly modest that feigning is impossible, have always 
recourse to art ; and the best we can then hope of them is that 
their deceit is caused by a real attachment. A third party was 
now blended with our connection,* Monsieur Maltigues. She 
pleased him ; he asked nothing better than to marry her ; though 
a speculative immorality rendered him indifferent to everything. 
He loved intrigue as a game, even while not interested in the 
stake ; and seconded Madame d’ Arbigny’s designs on me, ready 
to desert this plot if occasion served for accomplishing his own. 
He was a man against whom I felt a singular repugnance; 
though scarcely thirty, his manners and person were remarkably 
hackneyed. In England, where we are accused of coldness, I 

* The lady’s professed aversion to a third party in her attachments 
seems unaccountably reversed. — Tr. 


208 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


never met anything comparable with the seriousness of his 
demeanor on entering a room. I should never have taken him 
for a Frenchman, if he had not possessed some taste and plea- 
santry, with a love of talking very extraordinary in a man who 
seemed sated of the world, and who carried that disposition 
to a system. He pretended that he was born a sensitive enthu- 
siast, but that the knowledge of mankind he owed to the revo- 
lution had undeceived him. He perceived, he said, that there 
was nothing good on earth, save fortune, or power, or both ; and 
that fine qualities must give way to circumstances. He practised 
on this theory cleverly enough ; his only mistake lay in proclaim- 
ing it ; but though he had not the national wish to please, he 
nevertheless desired to create some sensation, and that rendered 
him thus imprudent : he differed in these respects from Madame 
d’Arbigny, who sought to attain her end without betraying her- 
self, or seeking to shine, even in her errors. What was most 
strange in these two persons is, that the ardent one could keep hei 
secret, while the insensible knew not how to hold his tongue. Such 
as he was, Maltigues had a great ascendency over his relative ; 
either he guessed it, or she told him all; for even from her habit- 
ual wariness, she required, now and then, to take breath, as it were, 
by an indiscretion. If Maltigues looked on her severely, she was 
always disturbed ; if he seemed discontented, she would take him 
aside to ask the reason ; if he went away angry, she almost in- 
stantly shut herself up to write to him. I explained this to my- 
self from the fact of his having known her from her childhood ; 
he had managed her affairs since she had lost all nearer ties ; but 
the chief cause was her project, which I discovered too late, of 
marrying him, if I left her; for at no price would she pass for a 
deserted woman. Such a resolution might make you believe that 
she loved me not; yet love alone could have induced her prefer- 
ence : but through life she could mix calculation even with pas- 
sion, and the factitious pretences of society with her natural feel- 
ings. She wept when she was agitated, but she could also weep 
because that was the way to express emotion. She was happy in 
being loved, because she loved, but also because it did her lid nor 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


209 


before the world. She had right impulses while left to herself, hut 
could only enjoy them when they were rendered profitable to her 
self-love. She was a person formed for and by 1 good company/ 
and made that false use even of truth itself, which is so often found 
in a country where a zeal for producing effect, by certain senti- 
ments, is much stronger than the sentiments themselves. It was 
long since I had heard from my father, the war having cut off all 
communication. At last, chance favored the arrival of a letter,* 
in which he adjured me to return, in the name of my duty and 
his affection ; at the same time declaring that, if I married Ma- 
dame d’Arbigny, I should cause him the most fatal sorrow; 
begging me, at least, to decide on nothing until I had heard his 
advice. I replied to him instantly, giving my word of honor that 
I would shortly do as he required. Madame d’Arbigny tried, 
first prayers, then despondence, to detain me ; and finding these 
fail, resorted to a fresh stratagem ; but how could I then suspect 
it ? She came to me one morning pale and dishevelled, threw her- 
self into my arms as if dying with terror, and besought me to pro- 
tect her. The order, she said, was come for her arrest, as sister 
to Count Raimond, and I must find her some asylum from her 
pursuers; at this time women, indeed, were not spared, and all 
kinds of horrors appeared probable. I took her to a merchant de- 
voted to my interest, and hoped to save her, as only Maltigues 
shared the secret of her retreat. In such a situation, how could 
I avoid feeling a lively interest in her fate ? how separate myself 
from her? how say : ‘ You depend on my support, and I withdraw 
it V Nevertheless, my father’s image continually haunted me, and 
I took many occasions to intreat her leave for setting forth alone ; 
but she threatened to give herself up to the assassins if I quitted 
her, and twice, at noonday, rushed from the house in a frantic 
state that overwhelmed me with grief and fear. I followed, vainly 
conjuring her to return ; fortunately it happened (unless by con- 
spiracy) that each time we were met by Maltigues, who brought 
* Frequent unexplained chances favor subsequent letters; indeed, the 
correspondence henceforth seems to proceed as easily as if the countries 
had been at peace. — Te. 

18 * 


2 1C 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


ber back with reproaches on her rashness. Of course, I resigned 
myself to stay, and wrote to my father, accounting, as well as I 
could, for my conduct; though I blushed at being in France, amid 
the outrages then acting there, while that country, too, was at war 
with my own. Maltigues often rallied me on my scruples; but, 
clever as he was, he did not perceive the effect of hb jests, 
which revived all the feelings he sought to extinguish. Madame 
d’Arbigny, however, remarked this; but she had no influence 
over her kinsman, who was often decided by caprice, if self-inte- 
rest was absent. She relapsed into her griefs, both real and as- 
sumed, to melt me ; and was never more attractive than while 
fainting at my feet ; for she knew how to heighten her beauty as 
well as her other charms, and wedded each to some emotion in 
order to subdue me. Thus did I live, ever anxious, ever vacillat- 
ing, trembling when I received no letter from my father, still more 
wretched when I did ; enchained by my infatuation for Madame 
d’Arbigny, still more dreading her violence; for, by a strange in- 
consistency, though the gentlest, and often the gayest of women, 
habitually she was the most terrible person in a scene. She wished 
to bind me both by pleasure and by fear, and thus always trans- 
formed her nature to her use. One day, in September, 1793, 
more than a year after my coming to France, I had a brief letter 
from my father ; but its few words were so afflicting, that I must 
spare myself their repetition, Corinne ; it would too much unman 
me. He was already ill, though he did not say so; his pride and 
delicacy forbade ; but his letter breathed so much distress, both on 
account of my absence, and of my possible marriage, that, while 
reading it, I wondered how I could have been so long blind to the 
misfortunes with which I was menaced. I was now, however, 
sufficiently awakened to hesitate no more, and went to Madame 
d’Arbigny, perfectly decided to take leave of her. She perceived 
this, and at once retiring within herself, rose, saying : 1 Before you 
go, you ought to be informed of a secret which I blush to a*ow. 
If you abandon me, it is not me alone you kill. The fruit of my 
guilty love will perish with me/ Nothing can describe my sensa- 
tions ; that new, that sacred duty, absorbed my whole soul, and 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


211 


made me more submissively her slave than ever. I would have mar- 
ried her at once, but for the ruinous consequences that must have 
bfefallen me, as an Englishman, in then and there giving my name 
to the civil authorities. I deferred our union, therefore, till we 
could fly to England, and determined never to leave my victim 
till then. At first, this calmed her ; but she soon renewed her 
complaints against me, for not braving all impediments to make 
ner my wife. I should shortly have bent to her will, for I had 
fallen into the deepest melancholy, and passed whole days alone, 
without power to move — a prey to an idea which I never confessed 
to myself, though its persecution was incessant. I had a forbod* 
ing of my father’s illness, which I considered a weakness unworthy 
of belief. My reason was so bewildered by the shock my mistress 
had dealt me, that I now combated my sense of duty as a passion ; 
and that which I might have then thought my passion, tormented 
me as a duty. Madame d’Arbigny was perpetually writing me 
entreaties to visit her; at last I went, but did not speak on the 
subject which gave her such rights over me : indeed, she now less 
frequently alluded to it herself than I expected ; but my sufferings 
were too great for me to remark that at the time. Once, when I 
had kept my house for three days, writing twenty letters to my 
father, and tearing them all, M. Maltigues, who seldom sought 
me, came, deputed by his cousin, to tear me from my solitude. 
Though little interested in the success of his embassy, as you will 
discover,’ he entered before I had time to conceal that my face was 
bathed in tears. ‘ What is the use of all this, my dear boy V he 
said; ‘either leave my cousin, or marry her. The one step is as 
good as the other, each being conclusive/ — ‘There are situations in 
life/ replied I, ‘ where even by sacrificing one’s self, one may not 
be able to fulfil every duty/ — ‘ That is, there ought to be no such 
sacrifice,’ he added. ‘ I know of no circumstances in which it is 
necessary ; with a little address, one may back out of anything. 
Management is the queen of the world.’ — ‘I covet no such abi- 
lity/ said I ; ‘ but at least would wish, in resigning myself to un- 
happiness, to afflict no one that I love/ — ‘ Have nothing to do, 
then, with the intricate work they call love ; it is a sickness of the 


212 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

soul. 1 am attacked by it at times, like any one else ; but when 
it so happens, I tell myself that it shall soon be over, and 
always keep my word/ Seeking to deal, like himself, with gene- 
ralities — for I neither could nor would confide in him — I an- 
swered : ‘ Do what we will with love, we cannot banish honor and 
virtue, that often oppose our inclination/ — ‘If you mean, by 
honor, the necessity for fighting when insulted, there can be no 
doubt on that head; but, in other respects, v what interest have 
we in allowing ourselves to be perplexed by a thousand fasti- 
dious chimeras ?’ — ‘Interest F I repeated ; ‘ that is not the word 
in question/ — ‘To speak seriously/ he returned, ‘there are few 
men who have a clear view of this subject. I know they formerly 
talked of honorable misfortunes, and glorious falls ; but now tha. 
all men are persecuted, knaves as well as those by courtesy called 
honest, the only difference is between the birds who are trapped, 
and those who escape/ — ‘I know of other distinctions/ I replied, 
‘where prosperity is despised, and misfortune honored by the 
good/ — ‘ Show me the good, though/ he said, ‘ whose courageous 
esteem would console you for your own destruction. On the con- 
trary, the self-elected virtuous are those who excuse you if happy, 
and love you if powerful. It is very fine in you, no doubt, to 
repent thwarting a father, who ought no longer to meddle with 
your affairs ; yet, do anything rather than linger where you may 
lose your life in a thousand ways. For my part, whatever hap- 
pens to me, I would, at any price, spare my friends the sight of 
my sufferings, and myself their long faces of condolence/ — ‘In 
my opinion/ interrupted I, ‘ the aim of an honest man’s life is 
not the happiness which serves only himself, but the virtue which 

is useful to others/ — ‘ Virtue !’ exclaimed Maltigues, ‘ virtue ' 

he hesitated for a moment, then, with more decision, continued; 
‘ that’s a language for the vulgar, that even priests cannot talk 
between themselves without laughing. There are good souls 
whom certain harmonious words still move ; for their sakes let 
the tune be played : all the poetry that they call conscience and 
devotion was invented to console those who cannot get on in the 
world, like the de profundis that is sung for the dead. The liv- 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


213 


mg and the prosperous are by no means ambitious of like homage/ 
I was so irritated that I could not help saying, haughtily, ‘ I shall 
be sorry, sir, when I have a right in the house of Madame 
d’Arbigny, if she persists in receiving a man who thinks and 
speaks as you do/ — ‘ When that time comes/ he answered, ‘ you 
may act as you please ; but if my cousin is led by me, she will 
never marry a man who looks forward in such affright to his union 
with her. I have always, as she can tell you, censured her folly, 
and the means she has wasted on an object so little worth her 
trouble/ At these words, which their accent rendered still more 
insulting, I made him a sign to follow me; and, on our way, it is 
but justice to tell you that he continued to develop his system 
with the greatest possible coolness : he might be no more in a few 
minutes, yet said not one serious, one feeling word. ‘ If I had 
been addicted to all the absurdities of other young men/ he pur- 
sued, ‘ would not what I have seen in my own country have cured 
me ? When has your scrupulousness done you any good ? ’ — ‘ 1 
agree with you/ said I, ‘ that in your country, at present, it is of 
less utility than elsewhere; but in time, or beyond time, each 
man has his reward/ — ‘ Oh, if you include Heaven in your calcu- 
lations ’ — ‘And why not? One or other of us, perhaps, will 

soon know what it means/ — ‘If I die/ he laughed forth, ‘I am 
sure I shall know knothing about it; if you are killed, you won’t 
come back to enlighten me/ I now remembered that I had taken 
no precautions for informing my father of my probable fate, or 
making over to Madame d’Arbigny part of my fortune, on which 
I thought she had claims. We drew near Maltigues’s house, and 
I asked leave to write two letters there : he assented. As we re- 
sumed our route, I gave them to him, and reccominended Madame 
d’Arbigny to him, as to a friend of hers on whom I could rely. 
This proof of confidence touched him ; for, be it observed, to the 
glory of honesty, that the most candid profligates are much 
flattered if they chance to receive a mark of esteem ; our relative 
position, too, was grave enough to have affected even him ; but as 
he would not for worlds have had me guess this, he said jestingly, 
though I believe prompted by deeper feelings : ‘ You are a good 


214 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


fellow, my dear Nevil ; I’d fain do something generous by you ; 
it may bring me luck, as they say ; and truly generosity is sc 
babyish a quality, that it ought to be better paid in Heaven than 
on earth. But ere I serve you, our conditions must be made 
plain, say what I will — we fight, nevertheless/ I returned a dis- 
dainful consent, for I thought such preface unnecessary. Maltigues 
proceeded, in his cold, careless way : 1 Madame d’ Arbigny does not 
suit you ; you are in no way congenial ; your father would be in 
despair if you made such a match, and you would run mad at 
having distressed him ; therefore it would be better, if I live, that 
I should marry the lady; if you kill me, still better that she 
should marry another; for my cousin is so highly sagacious, even 
while in love, that she never fails to provide against the chance of 
being loved no longer. All this you will learn by her letters. I 
bequeath them to you : here is the key of my desk. I have been 
her intimate ever since she was born ; and you know that, mys- 
terious as she is, she has no secrets with me — little dreaming 
that I should ever tell ; it is true I feel no impulse hurry me on, 
but I do not attach much importance to these things; and I think 
that we men may say what we like to each other about women. 
Also, if I die, it is to her bright eyes that I shall owe such acci- 
dent ; and though I am quite ready to die for her, with a good 
grace, I am not too obliged by the situation in which her double 
intrigue has placed me ; for the rest, it is not quite sure that you 
will kill me/ So saying, as we were now beyond the town, he 
drew his sword, and stood upon his guard. He had spoken with 
singular vivacity. I was confounded by what I had heard. The 
approach of danger, instead of agitating, animated him ; and I 
knew not whether he had betrayed the truth, or invented a false- 
hood out of revenge. In this suspensé I was very careful of his 
life; he was not so adroit a swordsman as myself; ten times 
might I have run him through the breast, but I contented myself 
with slightly wounding and disarming him ; he seemed sensible 
of this. I led him to his own house, and brought him back to 
the conversation which our duel had interrupted. He then said : 
1 T am vexed at having so treated my cousin ; but peril is like 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


215 


wine, it gets into one’s head ; yet I can now excuse myself ; it 
rested with you to kill me, and you spared my life ; you could 
not be happy with her, she is too cunning; now to me that is 
nothing ; for, charmed as I am both with her mind and person, 
she can never do anything to my disadvantage, and we shall be 
of service to each other when marriage makes a common interest. 
But you are romantic, and would be her dupe, therefore I cannot 
refuse the letters I promised you — read them, start for England, 
and do not worry yourself too much as to Madame d’Arbigny's 
regrets. She will weep, because she loves you, but she will soon 
be comforted ; she is too rational a woman to be long unhappy, 
or, above all, to appear so. In three months she shall be Madame 
de Maltigues.’ All that he told me was proved true by her cor- 
respondence with him. I felt convinced that her blushing con- 
fession was a falsity, used but to force me into marriage. This 
was the basest imposition she had practised on me. She certainly 
loved me, for she even told Maltigues so ; yet flattered him with 
such art, left him so much to hope, and studied to please him in 
a character so contrasted from that she had ever worn for me, 
that it was impossible to doubt her intention of marrying him, if 
her union with me was prevented. Such was the woman, Corinne, 
who had forever wrecked the peace of my heart and conscience. 
I wrote to her ere I departed, and saw her no more. As Maltigues 
predicted, I have since heard that she became his wife. But I was 
far from having tasted the bitterest drop that awaited me. I 
hoped to obtain my father’s pardon ; sure that, when I told him 
how I had been misled, he would love me the more, the more 
pitiable I became. After above a month’s journey, by night and 
day, I crossed Germany, and arrived in England, full of confidence 
in the inexhaustible bounty of paternal love. Corinne, I had 
scarce landed, when a public paper informed me that my father 
was no more. Twenty months have passed since that moment, 
yet it is ever present, like a pursuing phantom. The letters that 
formed the words : ( Lord Nevil has just expired,’ are written iu 
flames, to which those of the volcano before us are nothing. I 
heard that he died of grief at my absence in France; fearing that 


216 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


I should renounce my military career, that I should marry a 
woman of whom he had an indifferent opinion, and settle in a 
country at war with my own, entirely forfeiting my reputation as 
an Englishman. Corinne, Corinne ! am I not a parricide? Tell 
:ne.” — “No,” she cried, “no; you are only unfortunate ; your 
generosity involved you. I respect as much as I love you ; judge 
yourself by my heart ; make that your conscience ! Your grief 
distracts you : believe one who loves you from no illusion — it is 
because you are the best, the most affectionate of men, that I adore 
you.” — “Corinne,” said Oswald, “these tributes are not due to 
me ; though, perhaps, I am less guilty than I think ; my father 
pardoned me before he died. I found the last address he wrote 
me full of tenderness. A letter from me had reached him, some- 
what to my justification; but the evil was done; his heart was 
iroken. When I returned to the Hall, his old servants thronged 
round me; I repulsed their consolations, and accused myself to 
them. I knelt at his tomb, swearing, if time for atonement yet 
were left me, that I would never marry without his consent. 
Alas ! I promised to one who was no more; what now availed my 
ravings? I ought, at least, to consider them as engagements to 
do nothing which he would have disapproved had he lived. Co- 
rinne, dear love! why are you thus depressed? He might com- 
mand me to renounce a woman who owed to her own artifice the 
power she exerted over me ; but the most sincere, natural, and 
generous of her sex, for whom I feel my first true love, which 
purifies instead of misguiding my soul, why should a heavenly 
being wish to separate me from her ? 

“ On entering my father’s room, I saw his cloak, his footstool, 
and his sword still in their wonted stations, though his place was 
vacant, and I called on him in vain. This memento of his 
thoughts alone replied. You already know a part of it,” Oswald 
added, giving the manuscript to Corinne. “ Read what he wrote 
on the Duty of Children to their Parents : your sweet voice, per- 
haps, may familarize me with the words.” She thus obeyed 

“Ah, how slight a cause will teach self-mistrust to a father or 
mother in the decline of life ! They are easily taught that they 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


217 


are no longer wanted on earth. What use can they believe them- 
selves to you, who no longer ask their advice ! ye live but in the 
present ; ye are wedded to it by your passions, and all that be- 
longs not to that present appears to you superannuated ; — ye are 
so much occupied by your young hearts and minds, that, making 
your own day your point of history, the eternal resemblances be- 
tween men and their times escape your attention. The authority 
of experience seems but a vain fiction, formed for the credulity 
of age, as the last enjoyment of its self-love. What an error is 
this ! 

“ That vast theatre, the world, changes not its actors : it is 
always man who appears there, though he varies; and as all his 
changes depend on some great passion, whose circle hath long and 
oft been trod, it would be strange, if in the little combinations of 
private life, experience, the science of the past, were not the 
plenteous source of useful instruction. Honor your fathers and 
mothers, then ! respect them, if but for the sake of their bygone 
reign, the time of which they were the only rulers — if but for the 
years forever lost, whose reverent seal is imprinted on their brows. 
Know your duty, presumptuous children, impatient to walk alone 
on the path of life. They will leave you, do not fear, though so 
tardy in yielding you place: that father, whose discourses are still 
tainted by unwelcome severity; that mother, whose age imposes 
on you such tedious cares. They will go, those watchful guard- 
ians of your childhood, these zealous protectors of your youth, 
they will depart, and you will seek in vain for better friends : 
when they are lost, they will wear new aspects ; for time, which 
makes the living old before our eyes, renews their youth when 
death has torn them away. Time then lends them a might un- 
known before : we see them in our visions of eternity, wherein 
there is no age, as there are no gradations ; and if they have left 
virtuous memories behind, we adorn them with a ray from heaven : 
our thoughts follow them to the home of the elect; we see them 
in scenes of felicity, and, beside the bright beams of which we 
form their glory, the light of our own best days, our own most 
dazzling triumphs, is extinguished. ”(26) “ Corinne.*” cried Nevil, 
19 


218 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


almost heart-broken, “ think you it was against me he breathed 
that eloquent complaint ?” — “No, no,” she replied : “remember 
how he loved you, and believed in your affection. I am of opinion 
that these reflections were written long ere you committed the 
faults with which you reproach yourself. Listen rather to these 
thoughts on indulgence, that I find some pages later : 1 We go 
through life surrounded by snares and with unsteady steps ; our 
senses are seduced by deceptive allurements; our imaginations 
mislead us by a false glare ; our reason itself each day receives 
but from experience the degree of light and confidence for that 
day required. So many dangers for so much weakness ; so many 
‘varied interests with such limited foresight and capacity; in sooth, 
so many things unknown, and so short a life, show us the high 
rank we should give to indulgence among the social virtues. 
Alas ! where is the man exempt from foibles, who can look back 
on his life without regret and remorse ? He must be a stranger 
to the agitations of timidity, and never can have examined his 
own heart in the solitude of conscience/( 27 ) 

“These,” said Corinne, “are the-words your father addresses 
to you from above/ 9 — “ True,” sighed Oswald, “consoling angel ! 
how you cheer me; yet could I but have seen him for a moment, 
ere he died — could I have said how unworthy of him I felt my- 
self, and been believed, I should not tremble like the guiltiest of 
mankind. I should not evince the vacillation of conduct and 
gloom of soul which can promise happiness to no one. Courage 
must be born of conscience ; how then should it triumph over her ? 
Even now, as the darkness closes in, methinks I see, in yon cloud, 
the thunderbolt that is armed against me. Corinne, Corinne ! 
comfort your unhappy lover, or leave me on the earth, which, per- 
haps, will open at my cries, and let me descend to the abode of 
death.” * 

* Lord Nevil does not inform us whether he entered the army before 
he visited France, or during his year’s residence in Scotland, ere he re- 
turned thither. Between his father’s death and his departure for Italy, 
he had surely as little time as health for the military dutieH even of a 
mess-table. — Ta. 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


219 


BOOK XIII. 

VESUVIUS, AND THE CAMPAGNA CF NAPLES. 

CHAPTER 1. 

Lord Nevil remained long exhausted after the trying recital 
which had thrilled him to the soul. Corinne gently strove to re- 
vive him. The river of flame which fell from Vesuvius fearfully 
excited his imagination. She availed herself of this, in order to 
draw him from his own recollections, and begged him to walk with 
her on the banks of once inflamed lava. The ground they crossed 
glowed beneath their steps, and seemed to warm them from a spot 
so hostile to all life. Man could not here call himself “lord of 
the creation ;” it seemed escaping from his tyranny by suicide. 
The torrent of fire is of a dusky hue, yet when it lights a vine, 
or any other tree, it sends forth a clear bright blaze; but the lava 
itself is of that lurid tint, which might represent infernal fire; it 
rolls on with a crackling sound, that alarms the more from its 
slightness — cunning seems joined with strength ; thus secretly 
steals the tiger to his prey. This cataract, though so deliberate, 
loses not a moment; if it encounter a high wall, or anything that 
opposes its progress, it heaps against the obstacle its black and 
bituminous flood, and buries it beneath burning waves. Its course 
is not so rapid but that men may fly before it; but like Time, it 
overtakes the old or the imprudent, who, from its silent approach, 
think to escape without exertion. Its brightness is such that 
earth is reflected in the sky, which appears lapped in perpetual 
lightning ; this, too, is mirrored by the sea, and all nature clothed 
in their threefold fires. The wind is heard, and its effect per- 
ceived, as it forms a whirlpool of flame round the gulf whence the 
lava issues ; one trembles to guess at what is passing in the bosom 
of the earth, whose fury shakes the ground beneath our steps. 
The rocks about the source of this flood are covered with pitch 


* 


220 


CORINNE; OB, ITALY. 


and sulphur, whose colors, indeed, might suit the home of fiends— 
a livid green, a tawny brown, and an ensanguined red, form just 
that dissonance to the eye of which the ear were sensible, if pierced 
hy the harsh cries of witches, conjuring down the moon from hea- 
ven. All that is near the volcano bears so supernal an aspect, that 
doubtless the poets thence drew their portraitures of hell. There 
we may conceive how man was first persuaded that a power of evil 
existed to thwart the designs of Providence. Well may one ask, 
in such a scene, if mercy alone presides over the phenomena of cre- 
ation ; or if some hidden principle forces natures, like her sons, 
into ferocity? “ Corinne , ” sighed Nevil, “is it not from hence 
that sorrow comes ? Does the angel of death take wing from yon 
summit ? If I beheld not thy heavenly face, I should lose all 
memory of the charms with which the Eternal has adorned the 
earth ; yet this spectacle, frightful as it is, overawes me less than 
conscience. All perils may be braved ; but how can the dead 
absolve us for the wrongs we did them living ? Never, never. Ah, 
Corinne 1 what need of fires like these ? The wheel that turns 
incessantly, the stream that tempts and flies, the stone that rolls 
back the more we would impel it on — these are but feeble images 
of that dread thought, the impossible, the irreparable !” A deep 
silence now reigned around Oswald and Corinne ; their very guides 
were far behind ; and near the crater naught was heard save the 
hissing of its fires ; suddenly, however, one sound from the city 
reached even this region — the chime of bells, perhaps announcing 
a death, perhaps a birth, it mattered not — most welcome was it to 
our travellers. “ Dear Oswald,” said Corinne, “ let us leave this 
desert, and return to the living world. Other mountains raise us 
bove terrestrial life, and bring us nearer Heaven, but here nature 
seems treated as a criminal, and condemned no more to taste the 
beneficent breath of her Creator. This is no sojourn for the good 
• — let us descend.” An abundant shower fell as they sought the 
plain, threatening each instant to extinguish their torches: the 
Lazzaroni accompanied them with yells that might alarm any one 
who knew not that such was their constant custom. These men 
are sometimes agitated by a superfluity of life, with which they 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


221 


know not what to do, uniting equal degrees of violence and sloth. 
Their physiognomy, more marked than their characters, seem to 
indicate a kind of vivacity in which neither mind nor heart are 
at all concerned. Oswald, uneasy lest the rain should hurt Co- 
rinne, and lest their lights should fail, was absorbed by this indefi- 
nite sense of her danger; and his tenderness by degrees restored 
that composure which had been disturbed by the confidence he had 
made to her. They regained their carriage at the foot of the moun- 
tain, and stopped not at the ruins of Herculaneum, which are, as 
it were, buried afresh beneath the buildings of Portici. They ar- 
rived at Naples near midnight, and Corinne promised Nevil, as 
they took leave, to give him the history of her life on the morrow. 


CHAPTER II 

The next morning Corinne resolved to impose on herself the 
effort she had promised : the intimate knowledge of Oswald’s 
character which she had acquired redoubled her inquietude. She 
left her chamber, carrying what she had written in a trembling 
yet determined hand. She entered the sitting-room of their hotel. 
Oswald was there : he had just received letters from England. 
One of them lay on the mantel-piece : its direction caught her 
eye, and, with inexpressible anxiety, she asked from whom it 
came. “ From Lady Edgarmond,” replied Nevil. — “ Do you cor- 
respond with her ?” added Corinne. — “ Her late lord was my 
father’s friend,” he said; “and since chance has introduced the 
subject, I will not conceal from you that they thought it might 
one day suit me to marry the daughter, Lucy.” — “ Great God !” 
cried Corinne, and sank, half fainting, on a seat. — “ What means 
this?” demanded Oswald; “Corinne, what can you fear from one 
who loves you to idolatry ? Had my parent’s dying command 
been my union with Miss Edgarmond, I certainly should not now 
be free, and would have flown from your resistless spells ; but he 
merely advised the match, writing me word that he could form 
19 * 


222 


Corinne; or, it al y. 


no judgment of Lucy’s character, as she was still a child. I have 
seen her but once, when scarcely twelve years old. I made no 
arrangement with her mother; yet the indecision of my conduct, 
I own, has sprung solely from this wish of my father’s. Ere 1 
met you, I hoped for power to complete it, as a sort of expiation, 
and to prolong, beyond his death, the empire of his will ; but you 
have triumphed over my whole being, and I now desire but your 
pardon for what must have appeared so weak and irresolute in 
my conduct. Corinne, we seldom entirely recover from such 
griefs as I have experienced : they blight our hopes, and instil a 
painful timidity of the future. Fate had so injured me, that even 
while she offered the greatest of earthly blessings T could not 
trust her : but these doubts are over, love : I am thine forever, 
assured that, had my father known thee, he would have chosen 
such a companion for my life.” — “ Hold !” wept forth Corinne : 
“ I conjure you, speak not thus to me.” — “ Why,” said Oswald, 
“why thus constantly oppose the pleasure I take in blending 
your image with his ? thus wedding the two dearest and most 
sacred feelings of my heart ?” — “ You cannot,” returned Corinne ; 
“too well I know you cannot.” — “Just Heaven! what have you 
to tell me, then ? Give me that history of your life.” — “ I will ; 
but let me beg a week’s delay, only a week : what I have just 
learned obliges me to add a few particulars.” — “ How !” said Os- 
wald, *“ what connection have you ” — “Do not exact my 

answer now,” interrupted Corinne. “ You will soon know all, 
and that, perhaps, will be the end, the dreaded end of my felicity ; 
but ere it comes, let us explore together the Campagna of Naples, 
with minds still accessible to the charms of nature. In these fair 
scenes will I so celebrate the most solemn era of my life, that you 
must cherish some memory of Corinne, such as she was, and 
might have ever been, had she not loved you, Oswald.” — “ Co- 
rinne, what mean these hints ? You can have nothing to disclose 
which ought to chill my tender admiration ; why then prolong 
the mystery that raises barriers between us ?” — “ Dear Oswald, 
*tis my will : pardon me this last act of power : soon you alone 
will decide for us both. I shall hear my sentence from your lips, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


223 


unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel ; for I have on this earth nor 
love nor duty condemning me to live when you are lost.” She 
withdrew, gently repulsing Oswald, who would fain have followed 
her. 


CHAPTER III. 

Corinne decided on giving a fête, united as the idea was with 
melancholy associations. She knew she must be judged as a 
poet, as an artist, ere she could be pardoned for the sacrifice of 
her rank, her family, her name, to her enthusiasm. Lord Nevil 
was indeed capable of appreciating genius, but, in his opinion, the 
relations of social life overruled all others ; and the highest des- 
tiny of woman, nay of man too, he thought was accomplished, 
not by the exercise of intellectual faculties, but by the fulfilment 
of domestic duties. Remorse, in driving him from the false path 
in which he had strayed, fortified the moral principles innately 
his. The manners and habits of England, a country where such 
respect for law and duty exists, held, in many respects, a strict 
control over him. Indeed, the discouragement deep sorrows incul- 
cate, teaches men to love that natural order which requires no 
new resolves, no decision contrary to the circumstances marked 
for us by fate. Oswald’s love for Corinne modified his every feel- 
ing; but love never wholly effaces the original character, which 
she perceived through the passion that now lorded over it ; and, 
perhaps, his ruling charm consisted in the opposition of his cha- 
racter to his attachment, giving added value to every pledge of 
his love. But the hour drew nigh when the fleeting fears she had 
constantly banished, and which had but slightly disturbed her 
dream of joy, were to decide her fate. Her mind, formed for 
delight, accustomed to the various moods of poetry and talent, 
was wonder-struck at the sharp fixedness of grief; a shudder 
thrilled her heart, such as no woman long resigned to suffering 
ever knew. Yet, in the midst of the most torturing fears, she 
secretly prepared for the one more brilliant evening she might 


224 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

pass with Oswald. Fancy and feeling wore thus romantically 
blended. She invited the English who were there, and some 
Neapolitans whose society pleased her. On the day chosen for 
this fête, whose morrow might destroy her happiness forever, a 
singular wildness animated her features, and lent them quite a 
new expression. Careless eyes might have mistaken it for that 
of joy; but her rapid and agitated movements, her looks that 
rested nowhere, proved but too plainly to Nevil the struggle in 
her heart. Vainly he strove to soothe her by tender protestations. 

“ You shall repeat them two days hence, if you will , ” she said; 
u now these soft words but mock me." The carriages of Corinne’ s 
party arrived at the close of day, just as the sea-breeze refreshed 
the air, inviting man to the contemplation of nature. They went 
first to Virgil’s tomb. It overlooks the bay of Naples; and such 
is the magnificent repose of this spot, that one is tempted to be- 
lieve the bard himself must have selected it. These simple words 
from his Georgies might have served him for epitaph : — 

“ Illo Virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Parthenope.” 

“ Then did the soft Parthenope receive me.” 

His ashes here repose, and attract universal homage — all, all that 
man on earth can steal from death. Petrarch set a laurel beside 
them — like its planter, it is dead. He alone was worthy to have 
left a lasting trace near such a grave. One feels disgust at the 
crowd of ignoble names traced by strangers on the walls about the 
urn ; they trouble the peace of this classic solitude. Its present 
visitants left it in silence, musing over the images immortalized 
by the Mantuan. Blest intercourse between the past and future ! 
which the art of writing perpetually renews. Shadow of death, 
what art thou ? Man’s thoughts survive ; can he then be no more ? 
Such contradiction is impossible. “ Oswald,” said Corinne, “ these 
impressions are strange preparatives for a fête ; yet,” she added, 
with wild sublimity, “how many fêtes are held thus near the 
grave!” — “My life,” he said, “whence all this secret dread 7 
Confide in me ; for six months have I owed you everything ; per- 
haps have shed some pleasure over your path. Who then can 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


225 


err so impiously against happiness as to dash down the supreme 
bliss of soothing such a soul ? it is much to feel one’s self of use 
to the most humble mortal ; but Corinne ! to be her comfort I 
trust me, is a glory too delicious to renounce.” — “I believe your 
promises,” she said; “yet there are moments when something 
strange and new seizes the heart, and hurries it thus sadly.” 
They passed through the Grotto of Pausilipo by torchlight, as 
indeed would have been the case at noon ; for it extends nearly a 
quarter of a league beneath the mountain ; and in the centre, the 
light of day, admitted at either extremity, is scarcely visible. In 
this long vault the tramp of steeds and cries of their drivers 
resound so stunningly that they deaden all thought in the brain. 
Corinne’s horses drew her carriage with astonishing rapidity ; yet 
did she say : “Dear Nevil, how slowly wè advance ! pray hasten 
them.” — “Why thus impatient?” he asked; “formerly, while 
we were together, you sought not to expedite time, but to enjoy 
it.” — “ Yet now,” she said, “ all must be decision ; everything 
must come to an end ; and I would hasten it, were it my death.” 
On leaving the grotto, you feel a lively sensation at regaining 
daylight and the open country; such a country, too! What are 
so often missed in Italy, fine trees, here flourish in abundance. 
Italian earth is everywhere so spread with flowers that woods may 
better be dispensed with here than in most other lands. The 
heat at Naples is so great that, even in the shade, it is impossible 
to walk by day : but in the evening the sea and sky alike shed 
freshness through the transparent air; the mountains are so pic- 
turesque that painters love to select their landscapes from a coun- 
try whose original charm can be explained by no comparison with 
other realms. “I lead ye,” said Corinne, to those near her, 
“ through the fair scene celebrated by the name of Baiæ ; we will 
not pause there now, but gather its recollections into the moment 
when we reach the spot which sets them all before us.” It was 
on the Cape of Micena that she had prepared her fête ; nothing 
could be more tastefully arranged. Sailors, in habits of con- 
trasted hues, and some Orientalists from a Levantine barque then 
in the port, danced with the peasant girls from Ischia and Pro- 


226 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


cida, whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace ; sweet voices 
were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental music 
answered from behind the rocks. It was like echo echoed by 
sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The softness of the air 
animated all around — even Corinne herself. She was entreated 
to dance among the rustics ; at first, she consented with pleasure 5 
but scarcely had she begun, ere her forebodings rendered all 
amusement odious to her, and she withdrew to the extreme verge 
of the cape; thither Oswald followed, with others, who now 
begged her to extemporize in this lovely scene; her emotions 
were such that she permitted them to lead her towards the ele- 
vation on which they had placed her lyre, without power to 
comprehend what they expected. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Still, Corinne desired that Oswald should once more hear her, 
as on the day at the Capitol. If the talent with which Heaven 
had gifted her was about to be extinguished forever, she wished 
its last rays to shine on him she loved : these very fears afforded 
her the inspiration she required. Her friends were impatient to 
hear her. Even the common people knew her fame; and, as 
imagination rendered them judges of poetry, they closed silently 
round, their eager faces expressing the deepest attention. The 
moon arose ; but the last beams of day still paled her light. From 
the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea, forms the 
Cape of Micena, Vesuvius is plainly seen, and the bay and isles 
that stud its bosom. With one consent, the friends of Corinne 
begged her to sing the memories that scene recalled. She tuned 
her lyre, and began with a broken voice. Her look was beautiful ; 
but one who knew her, as Oswald did, could there read the trou- 
ble of her sonl. She strove, however, to restrain her feelings» 
and once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal situa* 
tion. 


227 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
CORINNE’S CHANT IN THE VICINITY OP NAPLES. 

Ay, Nature, History, and Poesie, 

Rival each other’s greatness ; — here the eye 
Sweeps with a glance, all wonders and all time. 

A dead volcano now, I see thy lake 
Avernus, with the fear-inspiring waves, 

Acheron, and Phlégeton boiling up 

With subterranean flame : these are the streams 

Of that old hell Æneas visited. 

Fire, the devouring life which first creates 
The world which it consumes, struck terror most 
When least its laws were known. — Ah! Nature then 
Reveal’d her secrets but to Poetry. 

The town of Cuma and the Sibyl’s cave, 

The temple of Apollo mark’d this height; 

Here is the wood where grew the bough of gold. 
The country of the Æneid is around ; 

The fables genius consecrated here 
Are memories whose traces still we seek. 

A Triton has beneath these billows plunged 
The daring Trojan, who in song defied 
The sea divinities: still are the rocks 
Hollow and sounding, such as Virgil told. 
Imagination’s truth is from its power: 

Man’s genius can create when nature’s felt; 

He copies when he deems that he invents. 

Amid these masses, terrible and old, 

Creation’s witnesses, you see arise 
A younger hill of the volcano born: 

For here the earth is stormy as the séa, 

But doth not, like the sea, peaceful retuvn 
Within its bounds: the heavy element, 

Upshaken by the tremulous abyss, 

Digs valleys, and rears mountains ; while the wave^ 
Harden’d to stone, attest the storms which rend 
Her depths; strike now upon the earth, 

You hear the subterranean vault resound. 

It is as if the ground on which we dwell 


228 


CORINNE} OR, ITALY. 

Were but a surface ready to unclose. 

Naples ! liow doth thy country likeness bear 
To human passions; fertile; sulphurous: 

Its dangers and its pleasures both seem born 
Of those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow 
Upon the atmosphere so many charms, 

Yet bid the thunder growl beneath our feet. 

Pliny but studied nature that the more 
He might love Italy; and call’d his land 
The loveliest, when all other titles fail’d. 

He sought for science as a warrior seeks 
For conquest: it was from this very cape 
He went to watch Vesuvius through the flame# * 
Those flames consumed him. 

0 Memory ! noble power ! thy reign is here. 
Strange destiny, how thus, from age to age, 

Doth man complain of that which he has lost. 
Still do departed years, each in their turn, 

Seem treasures of happiness gone by; 

And while mind, joyful in its far advance, 
Plunges amid the future, still the Soul 
Seems to regret some other ancient home 
To which it is drawn closer by the past. 

We envy Roman grandeur — did they not 
Envy their fathers’ brave simplicity? 

Once this voluptuous country they despised; 

Its pleasures but subdued their enemies. 

See, in the distance, Capua ! she o’ereame 
The warrior, whose firm soul resisted Rome 
More time than did a world. 

The Romans in their turn dwelt on these plains, 
When strength of mind but only served to feel 
More deeply shame and grief ; effeminate 
They sank without remorse. Yet Baiæ saw 
The conquer’d sea give place to palaces: 
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain, 
And the world’s masters, now in their turn slaves. 
Made nature subject to console themf elves 
That they were subject too. 


V 


229 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

And Cicero on this promontory died: 

This Gaëta we see. Ah! no regard 
Those triumvirs paid to posterity, 

Robbing her of the thoughts yet unconceived 
Of this great man : their crime continues still ; 

Committed against us was this offence. , 

Cicero ’neath the tyrant’s dagger fell, 

But Scipio, more unhappy, was exiled 
With yet his country free. Beside this shore 
He died; and still the ruins of his tomb 
Retain the name, “Tower of my native land:”* 

Touching allusion to the memory 
Which haunted his great soul. 

Marius found a refuge in yon marsh, j- 
Near to the Scipios’ home. Thus in all time 
Have natiops persecuted their great men. 

But they enskied them after death ; J and heaven, 

Where still the Romans deem’d they could command. 

Received amid her planets Romulus, 

Numa, and Cæsar ; new and dazzling stars ! 

Mingling -together in our erring gaze 
The rays of glory and celestial light. 

And not enough alone of misery, 

The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behold 
The isle of Capri, where at length old age 
Disarm’d Tiberius ; violent, yet worn ; 

Cruel, voluptuous; wearied e’en of crime, 

He sought yet viler pleasures; as he were 
Not low enough debased by tyranny. 

* “ La tour de la patrie.” Patrie can scarce be rendered by a single 
word : “native land” perhaps best expresses the ancient patria. — L. E. L. 

■f- Minturno. 

J “ Hs sont consolés par l’apothéose.” This is the only instance in 
which I have not given, as nearly as possible, the English word that 
answered most exactly; but I confess one so long as “apotheosis” fairly 
baffled my efforts to get it into rhythm. It is curious to observe how 
many Pagan observances were grafted on the Roman Catholic worship. 
Canonization is but a Christian apotheosis, only the deceased turned intc 
saints instead of gods. — L. E. L. 

20 


230 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


And Agrippina’s tomb is on these shores, 

Facing the isle,* reared after Nero’s death; 

The murderer of his mother had proscribed 
Even her ashes. Long at Baiæ he dwelt 
Amid the memories of his many crimes. 

What wretches fate here brings before our eyes Î 
Tiberius, Nero, on each other gaze. 

The isles, volcano-born amid the sea, 

Served at their birth the crimes of the old world , 

The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks, 

Watched ’mid the waves their native land afar, 

Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air: 

And often, a long exile worn away, 

Sentence of sudden death arrived to show 
They were remember’d by their enemies. 

0 Earth ! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never 
Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers ; 

And hast thou then no pity for mankind? 

Can thy maternal breast receive again 

Their dust, and yet not throb ? L. E. L. 

Here Corinne paused for some moments. All her assembled 
hearers threw laurels and myrtle at her feet. The soft pure 
moonlight fell on her brow, and the breeze wantoned with her 
ringlets as if nature delighted to adorn her : she was so over- 
powered as she looked on the enchanting scene, and on Oswald, 
who shared this delicious eve with her, yet might not be thus 
near forever, that tears flowed from her eyes. Even the crowd, 
who had just applauded her so tumultuously, respected her emo- 
tion, and mutely awaited her words, which they trusted would 
make them participators in her feelings. She preluded for some 
time on her lyre, then, no longer dividing her song into stanzas, 
abandoned herself to the uninterrupted stream of verse. 

Some memories of the heart, some women’s manes 
Yet ask your tears. ’Twas at this very place, 

Massena,f that Cornelia kept till death 


* Caprea 


f The retreat of Pompey 


231 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Her noble mourning; Agrippina too 
Long wept Germanicus beside these shores. 

At length the same assassin who deprived 
Her of her husband found she was at last 
Worthy to follow him. And yonder isle* 

Saw Brutus and his Portia bid farewell. 

Thus women loved of heroes have beheld 
The object perish which they so adored. 

Long time in vain they follow’d in their path ; 

There came the hour when they were forced to part. 
Portia destroy’d herself ; Cornelia clasp’d 
The sacred urn which answer’d not her cries; 

And Agrippina, for how many years ! 

Yainly her husband’s murderer defied. 

And wander’d here the wretched ones, like ghosts 
On wasted shores of the eternal stream, 

Sighing to reach the other far-off land. 

Did they not ask in their long solitude 
Of silence, of all nature, of the sky, 

Star-shining ? — and from the deep sea, one sound. 
One only tone of the beloved voice 
They never more might hear. 

Mysterious enthusiasm, Love! 

The heart’s supremest power ; — which doth combine 
Within itself religion, poetry, 

And heroism. Love, what may befall 
When destiny has bade us separate 
From him who has the secret of our soul; 

Who gave us the heart’s life, celestial life. 

What may befall when absence, or when death 
Isolate woman on this earth ? — She pines, 

She sinks. How often have these rocks 
Offer’d their cold support to the forlorn! 

Those once worn in the heart ; — those once sustain'^ 
Upon a hero’s arm 

Before you is Sorrento: — dwelling there 
Was Tasso’s sister, when the pilgrim tame 


* Nisida. 


232 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Asking asylum ’gainst the prince unjust 

From humble friends: long grief had almost quench'd 

Reason’s clear light, but genius still was left. 

Yet kept he knowledge of the things divine, 

"When earthly images were all obscured. 

Thus shrinking from the desert spread around. 

Doth Genius wander through the world, and finis 
No likeness to itself; no echo given 
By Nature; and the common crowd but hold 
As madness that desire of the rapt soul, 

Which finds not in this world enough of air — 

Of high enthusiasm, or of hope. 

For Destiny compels exalted minds ; — 

The ppet, whose imagination draws 

Its power from loving and from suffering — 

They are the vanish’d from another sphere. 

For the Almighty goodness might not frame 
All for the few — th’ elect or the proscribed. 

Why spoke the ancients with such awe ef Fate? 

What had this terrible Fate to do with them, 

The common and the quiet, who pursue 
The seasons, and still follow timidly 
The beaten track of ordinary life? 

But she, the priestess of the oracle, 

Shook with the presence of the cruel power. 

I know not what the involuntary force 
That plunges Genius into misery. 

Genius doth catch the music of the spheres, 

Which mortal ear was never meant to know. 

Genius can penetrate the mysteries 
Of feeling, all unknown to other hearts; 

A power hath entered in the inmost soul, 

Whose presence may not be contained. 

Sublime Creator of this lovely world, 

Protect us: our exertions have no strength; 

Our hope’s a lie. Tumultuous tyranny 
Our passions exercise, and nëither leave 
Repose nor liberty. What we may do 
To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate. 

We may have said but yesterday some word 
Which may not be recalled. Still, when our mind 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


233 


Is elevate with noblest thoughts, we feel 
As on the height of some great edifice, 

Giddiness blending all things in our sight ; 

But even there, woe ! terrible woe ! appears. 

Not lost amid the clouds, it pierces through ; 

It flings the shades asunder ; 0 my God I 

What doth it herald to us?” L. E, L. 

» 

At these words, a mortal paleness overspread her countenance ; 
her eyes closed ; and she would have fallen to the earth, had not 
Oswald rushed to support her. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Corinne revived : the affecting interest of Oswald's look re- 
stored her to some composure. The Neapolitans were surprised 
at the gloomy character of her poetry, much as they admired it. 
They thought it the Muse’s task to dissipate the cares of life, and 
not to explore their terrible secrets; but the English who were 
present seemed deeply touched. Their own melancholy, embel- 
lished by Italian imagination, delighted them. This lovely wo- 
man, whose features seemed designed to depict felicity — this child 
of the sun, a prey to hidden grief — was like a flower, still fresh 
and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen the first dark 
impress of that withering blight which soon shall lay it low. 
The party embarked to return : the glowing calm of the hour 
made it a luxury to be upon the sea. Goëthe has described, in 
a delicious romance, the passion felt in warm climates, for the 
water. A nymph of the flood boasts to the fisherman the charms 
of her abode ; invites him to taste its refreshment, and, by de- 
grees, allures him to his death. This magic of the tide resem- 
bles that of the basilisk, which fascinates by fear. The wave 
rising gently afar, swelling, and hurrying as it nears the shore, is 
but a type of passion, that dawns in softness, but soon grows in- 
vincible. Corinne put back her tresses, that she might better 
20 * 


234 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


enjoy the air: her countenance was thus more beautiful than 
ever. The musicians, who followed in another boat, poured forth 
enchantments that harmonized with the stars, the sea, and the 
sweet intoxication of an Italian evening. “ Oh, my heart’s love !” 
whispered Oswald, “can I ever forget this day, or ever enjoy a 
happier ?” His eyes filled with tears. One of his most seduct- 
ive attributes was this ready yet restrained sensibility, which so 
oft, in spite of him, bedewed his lids : at such moments he was 
irresistible : sometimes even in the midst of an endearing plea- 
santry, a melting thrill stole on his mirth, and lent it a new, a 
noble charm. “Alas !” returned Corinne, “ I hope not for an- 
other day like this ; but be it blest, at least, as the last such of 
my life, if forbidden to prove the dawn of more endearing bliss.” 


CHAPTEK YI. 

The weather changed ere they reached Naples : the heavens 
darkened, and the coming storm, already felt in the air, convulsed 
the waves, as if the sea sympathized with the sky. Oswald pre- 
ceded Corinne, that he might see the flambeaux borne the more 
Steadily before her. As they neared the quay, he saw some 
Lazzaroni assembled, crying “ Poor creature ! he cannot save 
himself! we must be patient.” — “Of whom speak ye?” cried 
Nevil, impetuously. — “An old man,” they replied, “who was 
bathing below there, not far from the mole ; but the storm has 
risen : he is too weak to struggle with it.” Oswald’s first im- 
pulse was to plunge into the water ; then, reflecting on the alarm 
he should cause Corinne, when she came, he offered all the money 
he had with him, promising to double it, for the man who would 
swim to this unfortunate being’s assistance ; but the Lazzaroni 
all refused, saying : “ It cannot be, the danger is too fearful.” 
At that moment the old man sunk. Oswald could hesitate no 
longer : he threw off his coat, and sprang into the sea, spite of 
its waves, that dashed above his head : he buffeted them bravely ; 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


2b5 


seized the sufferer, who must have perished had he been a mo- 
ment later, and brought him to the land ; but the sudden chill 
and violent exertion so overwhelmed Lord Nevil, that he had 
scarcely seen his charge in safety, when he fell on the earth in- 
sensible, and so pallid, that the bystanders believed him a 
corpse. (28) It was then that the unconscious Corinne beheld 
the crowd, heard them cry, “He is dead,” and would have drawn 
back in terror ; when she saw one of the Englishmen who had 
accompanied her, break eagerly through the people : she made 
some steps to follow him ; and the first object which met her eye 
was a portion of Oswald’s dress, lying on the bank. She seized 
it with desperation, believing it all that was left of her love ; and 
when she saw him, lifeless as he appeared, she threw herself on 
his breast, in transport, and ardently pressed him to her heart : 
with what inexpressible rapture did she detect that his still beat, 
perhaps reanimated by her presence ! “ He lives !” she cried, 

“ he lives !” and instantly regained a strength, a courage, such as 
his mere friends could scarcely equal. She sent for everything 
that could revive him : and herself applied these restoratives, 
supporting his fainting head upon her breast, and, though she 
wept over it, forgetting nothing, losing not a moment, nor per., 
mitting her grief to interrupt her cares. Oswald grew better, 
but resumed not yet the use of his senses. She had him carried 
to his hotel, and, kneeling beside him, bathed his brow with 
stimulating perfumes, calling on him in tones of impassioned 
tenderness that might have waked the dead. He opened his 
eyes, and pressed her hand. For the joy of such a moment 
might one not endure the tortures of demons ? Poor human 
nature ! We guess at infinitude but by suffering ; and not a 
bliss in life can compensate the anguish of beholding those we 
love expire. “Cruel, cruel!” cried Corinne; “think what you 
have done!” — “Pardon,” he replied, in a trembling voice. “Be- 
lieve me, dearest, while I thought myself dying, I trembled but 
for thee.” Exquisite expression of mutual love and confidence ! 
Corinne, to her last day, could not recall those words without a 
fondness, which, while it lasted, taught her to forgive him all 


236 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Oswald’s next impulse was to thrust his hand into his bos ml 
for his father’s portrait ; it was still there ; but the water had left 
it scarcely recognizable; he was bitterly afflicted by this loss. 
“My God!” he cried, “dost thou deny me even his image?” 
Corinne besought his permission to restore it : he consented, without 
much hope ; what then was his amaze when, on the third morning 
she brought it to him, not only repaired, but more faithful than 
ever ! “ Yes,” cried Oswald, “you have divined his features and 
his look. This heavenly miracle decides you for my life’s com- 
panion, since to you is thus revealed the memory of one who must 
forever dispose my fate. Here is the ring my father gave his 
wife — the sacred bond sincerely offered by the noblest, and accepted 
by the most constant of hearts. Let me transfer it from my hand 
to thine, and, while thou keepest it, be no longer free. I take 
this solemn oath, not knowing to whom, but in thy soul I trust, 
that tells me all : the events of your life, if springing from your- 
self, must needs be lofty as your character. If you have been the 
victim to an unworthy fate, thank Heaven I can repair it; there- 
fore, my own Corinne, you owe your secrets to one whose promises 
precede your confidence.” — “ Oswald,” she answered, “ this deli- 
rium is the result of a mistake. I cannot accept your ring till I 
have undeceived you. An inspiration of the heart, you think, 
taught me your father’s features : I ought to tell you that I have 
seen him often.” — “Seen him! how? when? where? O God ! 
who are you, then ?” — “ Here is your ring,” returned Corinne, 
in a smothered tone. — “No,” cried Oswald, after a moment’s 
pause ; “ I swear never to wed another till you send back that ring. 
Forgive the tumult you have raised within me ; confused and half- 
forgotten thoughts afflict my mind.” — “I see it,” said Corinne; 
“ and this shall end : already your accents and your words are 
changed. Perhaps when you have read my history, the horrid 
word adieu ” — “ No, no,” cried Nevil; “ only from my death- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


287 


oed — fear not that word till then.” Corinne retired, and, in a 
few moments, Thérésina brought him the papers which he was 
now to read. 


BOOK XI Y. 

HISTORY OF CORINNE. 


CHAPTER I. 

u Oswald, I begin with the avowal which must determine my 
fate. If, after reading it, you find it impossible to pardon, do not 
finish this letter, but reject and banish me ; yet if, when you know 
the name and destiny I have renounced, all is not broken between 
us, what follows may then serve as my excuse. 

u Lord Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy : his 
first wife was a Roman ; and Lucy, whom they intended for your 
bride, is my sister, by an English lady — by my father’s second 
marriage.* Now, hear me ! I lost my mother ere I was ten years 
old, and, as it was her dying wish that my education should be 
finished ere I went to England, I was confided to an aunt at 
Florence, with whom I lived till I was fifteen. My tastes and 
talents were formed ere her death induced Lord Edgarmond to 
have me with him. He lived at a small town in Northumberland, 
which cannot, I suppose, give any idea of England ; yet was all I 
knew of it for six years. My mother, from my infancy, impressed 
on me the misery of not living in Italy ; my aunt had often added, 
that this fear of quitting her country had broken her heart. My 
good aunt herself was persuaded, too, that a Catholic would be 
condemned to perdition for settling in a Protestant country ; and 
though I was not infected by this fear, the thought of going to 
England alarmed ~ne much. I set forth with an inexplicable sense 
of sadness. The woman sent for me did not understand a word 
of Italian. .1 spoke it now and then to console my poor Thérésina, 


288 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


who had consented to follow me, though she wept incessantly at 
leaving her country ; but I knew that I must unlearn the habit 
of breathing the sweet sounds so welcome even to foreigners, and, 
for me, associated with all the recollections of my childhood. I 
approached the north unable to comprehend the cause of my own 
changed and sombre sensations. It was five years since I had 
seen my father. I hardly recognized him when I reached his 
house. Methought his countenance was very grave; yet he re- 
ceived me with tenderness, and told me I was extremely like my 
mother. My half-sister, then three years of age, was brought to 
me : her skin was fairer, her silken curls more golden than I had 
ever seen before; we have hardly any such faces in Italy; she 
astonished and interested me from the first; that same day I cut 
off some of her ringlets for a bracelet, which I have preserved ever 
since. At last my step-mother appeared, and the impression made 
on me by her first look grew and deepened during the years I 
passed with her. Lady Edgarmond was exclusively attached to 
her native country; and my father, whom she overruled, sacrificed 
a residence in London or Edinburgh to her wishes. She was a 
cold, dignified, silent person, whose eyes could turn affectionately 
on her child, but who usually wore so positive an air, that it ap- 
peared impossible to make her understand a new idea, or even one 
phrase to which she had not been accustomed. She met me po- 
litely, but I soon perceived that my whole manner amazed her, 
and that she proposed to change it, if she could. Not a word was 
said during dinner, though some neighbors had been invited. I 
was so tired of this silence, that, in the midst of our meal, I strove 
to converse a little with an old gentleman who sat beside me. I 
spoke English tolerably, as my father had taught me in child- 
hood ; but happening to cite some Italian poetry, purely delicate, 
in which there was some mention of love, my mother-in-law, who 
knew the language slightly, stared at me, blushed, and signed for 
the ladies, earlier than usual, to withdraw, prepare tea, and leave 
the men to themselves during the dessert.* I knew nothing of 


* If this was Corinne’s first English dinner, how did she know tha 
usual time for retiring ? — Tr. ch a - <■ , r ; ■ . 










CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


289 


this custom, which ‘ would ifot be believed in Venice/ — Society 
agreeable without women ! — For a moment I thought her lady- 
ship so displeased that she could not remain in the same room 
with me ; but I was reassured by her motioning me to follow, 
and never reverting to my fault during the three hours we passed 
in the drawing-room, waiting for the gentlemen. At supper, 
however, she told me, gently enough, that it was not usual in 
England for young ladies to talk; above all, they must never 
think of quoting poetry in which the name of love occurred. 

1 Miss Edgarraond/ she added, ‘ you must endeavor to forget all 
that belongs to Italy : it is to be wished that you had never known 
such a country/ I passed the night in tears, my heart was op- 
pressed. In the morning, I attempted to walk : there was so tre- 
mendous a fog that I could not see the sun, which at least would 
have reminded me of my own land ; but I met my father, who 
said to me : 1 My dear child, it is not here as in Italy ; our women 
have no occupations save their domestic duties. Your talents may 
beguile your solitude, and you may win a husband who will pride 
in them ; but in a country town like this, all that attracts atten- 
tion excites envy, and you will never marry at all if it is thought 
that you have foreign manners. Here, every one must submit 
to the old prejudices of an obscure county. I passed twelve 
years in Italy with your mother : their memory is very dear to 
me. I was young then, and novelty delightful. I have now re- 
turned to my original situation, and am quite comfortable; a 
regular, perhaps rather a monotonous life, makes time pass un- 
perceived ; one must not combat the habits of a place in which 
one is established ; we should be the sufferers if we did, for, in a 
scene like this, everything is known, everything repeated; there 
is no room for emulation, but sufficient for jealousy ; and it is bet- 
ter to bear a little ennui than to be beset by wondering faces that 
every instant demand reasons for what you do/ — My dear Oswald, 
you can form no idea of my anguish while my father spoke thus 
I remembered him all grace and vivacity, and I saw him stooping 
beneath the leaden mantle which Dante invented for hell, and 
which mediocrity throws over all who submit to her yoke. Enthusi 


240 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


asm for nature and the arts seemed vanishing from my sight ; and 
my soul, like a useless flame, consumed myself, having no longer 
any food from without. As I was naturally mild, my step-mother 
had nothing to complain of in my behavior towards her; and for 
my father, I loved him tenderly. A conversation with him was 
my only remaining pleasure ; he was resigned, but he knew that 
he was so ; while the generality of our country gentlemen drank, 
hunted, and slept, fancying such life the wisest and best in the 
world. Their content so perplexed me, that I asked myself if 
my own way of thinking was not a folly, and if this solid existence, 
which escaped grief, in avoiding thought and sentiment, was not 
far more enviable than mine. What would such a conviction 
have done for me ? it must have taught me to deplore as a mis- 
fortune that genius which in Italy was regarded as a blessing from 
Heaven. 

“ Towards the close of autumn the pleasures of the chase fre- 
quently kept my father from home till midnight. During his 
absence I remained mostly in my own room, endeavoring to 
improve myself ; this displeased Lady Edgarmond. 1 What good 
will it do Y she said ; ‘ will you be any the happier for it V The 
words struck me with despair. What then is happiness, I thought, 
if it consist not in the development of our faculties? Might we 
not as well kill ourselves physically as morally ? If I must stifle 
my mind, my soul, why preserve the miserable remains of life 
that would but agitate me in vain ? But I was careful not to 
speak thus before my mother-in-law. I had essayed it once o* 
twice, and her reply was, that women were made to manage 
their husbands’ houses, and watch over the health of their child- 
ren ; all other accomplishments were dangerous, and the best advice 
she could give me was to hide those I possessed. ' This discourse, 
though so commonplace, was unanswerable; for enthusiasm is 
peculiarly dependent on encouragement, and withers like a flower 
beneath a dark or freezing sky. There is nothing easier than to 
assume a high moral air, while condemning all the attributes of an 
elevated spirit. Duty, the noblest destination of man, may be 
distorted, like all other ideas, into an offensive weapon by whish 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


241 


narrow miuds silence their superiors as their foes. One would 
think, if believing them, that duty enjoined the sacrifice of all 
the qualities that confer distinction ; that wit were a fault, requir- 
ing the expiation of our leading precisely the same lives with those 
who have none ; but does duty prescribe like rules to all charac- 
ters? Are not great thoughts and generous feelings debts due 
to the world, from all who are capable of paying them ? Ought 
not every woman, like every man, to follow the bent of her own 
talents ? Must we imitate the instinct of the bees, whose every 
succeeding swarm copies the last, without improvement or variety ? 
No, Oswald ; pardon the pride of your Corinne, I believed myself 
intended for a different career. Yet I feel myself submissive to 
those I love as the females then around me, who had neither 
judgment nor wishes of their own. If it pleased you to pass 
your days in the heart of Scotland, I should be happy to live and 
die with you ; but far from abjuring imagination, it would teach 
me the better to enjoy nature, and the further the empire of my 
mind extended, the more glory should I feel in declaring you it3 
lord. 

u Lady Edgarmond was almost as importunate respecting my 
thoughts as my actions. It sufficed not that I led the same life 
as herself, it must be from the same motives; for she wished all 
the faculties she did not share to be looked on as diseases. We 
lived pretty near the sea ; at night, the north wind whistled through 
the long corridors of our old castle; by day, even when we re- 
united, it was wondrously favorable to our silence. The weather 
was cold and damp; I could scarce ever leave the house with 
pleasure. Nature, now, treated me with hostility, and deepened 
my regrets of her sweetness and benevolence in Italy. With the 
winter, we removed into the city, if so I may call a place with- 
out public buildings, theatre, music, or pictures. 

“ In the smallest Italian towns we have spectacles, improvisa- 
tores, zeal for the fine arts, and a glorious sun ; we feel that we 
live — but I almost forgot it in this assembly of gossips, this de- 
pository of disgusts, at once monotonous and varied. Births, 
deaths, and marriages, composed the history of our society ; and 
21 


242 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


these three events here differed not the least from what they are 
elsewhere. Figure to yourself what it must have been for me to 
be seated at a tea-table, many hours each day after dinner, with 
my step-mother’s guests. These were the seven gravest women 
in Northumberland — two were old maids of fifty, timid as fifteen. 
One lady would say : ‘ My dear, do you think the water hot 
enough to pour on the tea V — 1 My dear/ replied the other, 1 1 
think it is too soon ; the gentlemen are not ready yet .’ — 1 Do you 
think they will sit late to-day, my dear ?’ says a third. — 1 1 don’t 
Know,’ answers a fourth; ‘I believe the election takes place next 
week, so perhaps they are staying to talk over it.’ — ‘ No,’ rejoins 
a fifth, ‘ I rather think they are occupied by the fox-hunt which 
occurred last week ; there will be another on Monday ; but for all 
that, I suppose they will come soon.’ — ‘ Ah ! I hardly expect it,’ 
sighs the sixth; and all again is silence.* The convents I had 
seen in Italy appeared all life to this; and I knew not what would 
become of me. Every quarter of an hour some voice was raised 
to ask an insipid question, which received a lukewarm reply ; and 
ennui fell back with redoubled weight on these poor women, who 
must have thought themselves most miserable, had not habit from 
infancy instructed them to endure it. At last the gentlemen came 
up; yet this long hoped for moment brought no great change. They 
continued their conversation round the fire ; the ladies sat in the 
centre of the room distributing cups of tea; and, when the hour 
of departure arrived, each went home with her husband, ready for 
another day, differing from the last merely by its date on the 
almanac. I cannot yet conceive how my talent escaped a mortal 
chill. There is no denyiug that every case has two sides; every 
subject may be attacked or defended; we may plead the cause of 
life, yet much is to be said for death, or a state thus resembling 
it. Such was my situation. My voice was a sound either use- 
less or troublesome to its hearers. I could not, as in London or 
Edinburgh, enjoy the society of learned men, who, with a taste 

* What a flattering picture of female society, at the country-house of 
au intelligent English poor, not fifty years since ! — T» 


243 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

for intellectual conversation, would have appreciated that of a 
foreigner, even if she did not quite conform with the strict 
etiquettes of their country. I sometimes passed whole days with 
Lady Edgarmond and her friends, without hearing one word that 
echoed either thought or feeling, or beholding one expressive ges- 
ture. I looked on the faces of young girls, fair, fresh, and beau- 
tiful, but perfectly immovable. Strange union of contrasts ! All 
ages partook of the same amusements; they drank tea, and plsyed 
whist ; * women grew old in this routine here. Time was sure 
not to miss them ; he well knew where they were to be found. 

“An automaton might have filled my place, and could have 
done all that was expected of me. In England, as elsewhere, the 
divers interests that do honor to humanity worthily occupy the 
leisure of men, whatever their retirement ; but what remained for 
women in this isolated corner of the earth ? Among the ladies 
who visited us there were some not deficient in mind, though they 
concealed it as a superfluity; and towards forty this slight impulse 
of the brain was benumbed like all the rest. Some of them I 
suspected, must, by reflection, have matured their natural abili- 
ties; sometimes a look or murmured accent told of thoughts that 
strayed from the beaten track; but - the petty opinions, all-power- 
ful in their own little sphere, repressed these inclinations. A 
woman was considered insane, or of doubtful virtue, if she ven- 
tured in any way to assert herself ; and, what was worse than all 
these inconveniences, she could gain not one advantage by the 
attempt. At first, I endeavored to rouse this sleeping world. I 
proposed poetic readings and music, and a day was appointed for 
this purpose ; but suddenly, one woman remembered that she had 
been three weeks invited to sup with her aunt ; another, that she 
was in mourning for an old cousin she had never seen, and who 
had been dead for months ; a third, that she had some domestic 
arrangements to make at home; all very reasonable; yet thus 
forever were intellectual pleasures rejected; and I so often heard 
them say, * that cannot be done/ that, amid so many negations, 


* Spelt wish in the original. — T r. 


244 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

not to live would have been to me the best of all. After 
some debates with myself I gave up my vain schemes, not that 
my father forbade them, he even enjoined his wife to cease tor- 
menting me on my studies; but her insinuations, her stolen 
glances while I spoke, a thousand trivial hinderances, like the 
chains the Lilliputians wove round Gulliver, rendered it impos- 
sible for me to follow my own will ; so I ended by doing as I saw 
others do, though dying of impatience and disgust. By the time 
I had passed four weary years thus, I really found, to my severe 
distress, that my mind grew dull, and, in spite of me, was filled 
by trifles. Where no interest is taken in science, literature, and 
liberal pursuits, mere facts and insignificant criticisms necessarily 
become the themes of discourse; and minds, strangers alike to 
activity and meditation, become so limited as to render all inter- 
course with them at once tasteless and oppressive. There was no 
enjoyment near me save in a certain methodical regularity, whose 
desire was that of reducing all things to its own level ; a constant 
grief to characters called by heaven to destinies of their own. 
The ill-will I innocently excited, joined with my sense of the void 
all around me, seemed to check even my breath. Envy is only 
to be borne where it is excited by admiration ; but oh the misery 
of living where jealousy itself awakens no enthusiasm ! where we 
are hated as if powerful, though in fact allowed less influence 
than the obscurest of our rivals. It is impossible simply to 
despise the opinions of the herd : they sink, in spite of us, into 
the heart, and lie waiting the moments when our own superiority 
has involved us in distress; then, then, even an apparently tem- 
perate ( I Yell? may prove the most insupportable word we can 
hear. In vain we tell ourselves, ‘ such a man is unworthy to 
judge me, such a woman is incapable of comprehending me the 
human face has great power over the human heart; and when we 
read there a secret disapprobation, it haunts us in defiance of our 
reason. The circle which surrounds you always hides the rest of 
the world: the smallest object close before your eyes intercepts 
their view of the sun. So is it with the set among whom we 
dwell : nor Europe nor posterity can render us insensible to the 


245 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

intrigues of our next door neighbor; and whoever would live 
happily in the cultivation of genius ought to he, above all things, 
cautious in the choice of his immediate mental atmosphere. • 


CHAPTER II. 

u My only amusement was the education of my half-sister : her 
mother did not wish her to learn music, but permitted me to teach 
her drawing and Italian. I am persuaded that she must still re- 
member both ; for I owe her the justice to say that she, even then, 
evinced great intelligence. Oswald, if it was for your happiness 
I toiled, I shall bless my efforts, even from the grave. I was now 
nearly twenty : my father wished me to marry, and here the sad 
fatality of my life began. Lord Nevil was his intimate friend^ 
and it was yourself of whom he thought as my husband. Had 
we then met and loved, our fate would have been cloudless. I 
had heard such praises of you, that, whether from presentiment 
or pride, I was extremely flattered with the hope of being your 
wife. You were too young, for I was eighteen months your elder; 
but your love of study, they said, outstripped your age; and I 
formed so sweet an idea of passing my days with such a character 
as yours was described, that I forgot all my prejudices against the 
way of life usual to women in England. I knew, besides, that 
you would settle in Edinburgh or London ; in either place I was 
secure of finding congenial friends. I said then, as I think now, 
that all my wretchedness sprung from my being tied to a little 
town in the centre of a northern county. Great cities alone can 
suit those who deviate from hackneyed rules, if they design to 
live in society : as life is varied there, novelties are welcome; but 
where persons are content with a monotonous routine, they love 
not to be disturbed by the occasional diversion, which only shows 
them the tediousness of their every-day life. I am pleased to tell 
you, Oswald, though I had never seen ypu, that I looked forward 
with real anxiety to the arrival of your father, who was coming 
21 * 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


24*6 


to pass a week with mine. The sentiment had then too little 
motive to have been aught less than a foreboding of my future. 
Whfti I was presented to Lord Nevil, I desired, perhaps but too 
ardently, to please him ; and did infinitely more than was required 
for success; displaying all my talents, dancing, singing, and ex- 
temporizing before him ; my long imprisoned soul felt but too 
blest in breaking from its chain. Seven years of experience have 
calmed me. X am more accustomed to myself. I know how to 
wait. I have, perchance, less confidence in the kindness of others, 
less eagerness for their applause : indeed, it is possible that there 
was then something strange about me ! "VVe have so much fire and 
imprudence in early youth, one faces life with such vivacity ! 
Mind, however distinguished, cannot supply the work of time ; 
and though we may speak of the world as if we knew it, we neyer 
act up to our own views : there is a fever in our ideas that will not 
let our conduct conform with our reasonings. I believe, though 
not with certainty , that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too 
wild ; for though he treated me very amiably, yet, when he left my 
father, he said that, after due reflection, he thought his son too 
young for the marriage in question. Oswald, what importance do 
you attach to this confession ? I might suppress it, but I will not. 
Is it possible, however, that it will prove my condemnation ? I 
am, I know, tamed now : and could your parent have witnessed 
my love for you, Oswald — you were dear to him — we should 
have been heard. My step-mother now formed a project for mar- 
rying me to the son of her eldest brother, Mr. Maclinson, who 
had an estate in our neighborhood. He was a man of thirty, rich, 
handsome, highly born, and of honorable character; but so tho- 
roughly convinced of a husband's right to govern, and a wife's 
duty to obey, that a doubt on this subject would as much have 
shocked him as a question of his own integrity. The rumors of 
my eccentricity did not alarm him. His house was so ordered, 
the same things were every day performed there so punctually to 
the minute, that any change was impossible. The two old aunts 
who directed his establishment, the servants, the very horses, 
could not to-morrow have acted differently from yesterday; nay, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


247 


the furniture which had served three generations, would have 
Btarted of its own accord, had anything new approached it. The 
effects of my arrival, therefore, might well be defined. Habit there 
reigned so securely, that any little liberties I might have taken 
would but have beguiled a quarter of an hour once a week, with- 
out being of any further consequence. Mr. Maclinson was a good 
man, incapable of giving pain ; yet had I spoken to him of the 
innumerable annoyances which may torment an active or a feeling 
mind, he would have merely thought that I had the vapors, and 
bade me mount my horse to take an airing. He desired to marry 
me, because he knew nothing about the wishes of imaginative be- 
ings, and admired without understanding me : had he but guessed 
that I was a woman of genius, he might have feared that he could 
not please me ; but no such anxiety ever entered his head. J udge 
my repugnance against such an union. I decidedly refused. My 
father supported me : his wife from this moment cherished the 
deepest resentment : she was a despot at heart, though timidity often 
prevented her explaining her will when it was not anticipated, 
she lost her temper ) but if resisted, after she had made the effort 
of expressing it, she was the more unforgiving, for having been 
thus fruitlessly drawn from her w T onted reserve. The whole town 
was loud in my blame. 1 So proper a match, such a fortune, so 
estimable a man, of such a good family V was the general cry. I 
strove to show them why this very proper match could not suit 
me, and sometimes made myself intelligible while speaking, but 
when I was gone, my words left no impression : former ideas re- 
turned ; and these old acquaintance were the more welcome from 
having been a moment banished. One woman, much more mental 
than the rest, though she bowed to all their external forms, took 
me aside, when I had spoken with more than usual vivacity, and 
said a few words to me which I can never forget : ( You give 

yourself a great deal of troublp to no purpose, my dear : you can- 
not change the nature of things : a little northern town, uncon- 
nected with the world, uncivilized by arts or letters, must remain 
what it is. If you are doomed to live here, submit cheerfully ; 
but leave it if you can : these are your only alternatives/ This 


248 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

was evidently so rational, that I felt a greater respect for her than 
for myself : with tastes like enough to my own, she knew how to 
resign herself beneath the lot which I found insupportable : with a 
love of poetry, she could judge better the stubbornness of man. I 
sought to know more of her, but in vain : her thoughts wandered 
beyond her home, but her life was devoted to it. I even be- 
lieve that she dreaded lest her intercourse with me should revive 
her natural superiority; for what could she "have done with it 
there ? 


CHAPTEK III. 

u I might have passed my life in this deplorable situation had 
I not lost my father. A sudden accident deprived me of my pro- 
tector, my friend — the only being who had understood me in that 
peopled desert. My despair was uncontrollable. I found myself 
without one support. I had no relation save my step-mother, with 
whom I was no more intimate now than on the day I met her 
first. She soon renewed the suit of Mr. Maclinson ; and though 
she had no authority to command my marrying him, received no 
one else at her house, and plainly told me that she should coun- 
tenance no other match. Not that she much loved her kinsman ; 
but she thought me presumptuous in refusing him, and made his 
case her own, rather for the defence of mediocrity than from 
family pride. Every day my state grew more odious. I felt 
myself attacked by that home-sick yearning which renders exile 
more terrible than death. Imagination is displeased by each sur- 
rounding object — the country, climate, language, and customs: 
life as a whole, life in detail, each moment, each circumstance, has 
its sting ; for one’s own land inspires a thousand pleasures that 
we guess not till they are lost. 

“ ‘la favella, i ccstumi, 

L’aria, i tronchi, il terren,le mura, il sassi.’ 

** ‘Tongue, manners, air, trees, earth, walls, every stone,* 


CORINNE} OR, ITALY. 


219 


says Metastasio. It is, indeed, a grief no more to look upon the 
scenes of childhood : the charm of their memory renews our youth, 
yet sweetens the thought of death. The tomb and cradle there 
repose in the same shade ; while the years spent beneath stranger 
skies seem like branches without roots. The generation which 
preceded yours remembers not your birth ; it is not the genera- 
tion of your sires : a host of mutual interests exist between you 
and your countrymen, which cannot be understood by foreigners, 
to whom you must explain everything, instead of finding the ini- 
tiated ease that bids your thoughts flow forth secure the moment 
you meet a compatriot. I could not remember without emotion, 
such amiable expressions as 1 Cara , Carissima* I repeated them 
as I walked alone, in imitation of the kindly welcomes so con- 
trasted with the greetings I now received. Every day I wandered 
into the fields. Of an evening, in Italy, I had been wont to hear 
rich music } but now the cawing of rooks alone resounded beneath 
the clouds. The fruits could scarcely ripen. I saw no vines : 
the languid flowers succeeded each other slowly} black pines 
covered the hills : an antique edifice, or even one fine picture, 
would have been a relief for which I should have sought thirty miles 
round in vain.* All was dull and sullen : the houses and their 
inhabitants served but to rob solitude of its poetic horrors. There 
was enough of commerce and of agriculture near for them to say : 
1 You ought to be content, you want for nothing/ Stupid, super- 
ficial judgment ! The hearth of happiness or suffering is in our 
own breast’s secret sanctuary. At twenty-one, I had a right to 
my mother’s fortune, and whatever my father had left me. Then 
did I first dream of returning to Italy, and devoting my life to 
the arts. This project so inebriated me with joy, that, at first, I 
could anticipate no objections} yet, as my feverish hope subsided, 
I feared to take an irreparable resolve, and thought on what my 
acquaintance might say, to a plan which, from appearing perfectly 

* Corinne should have rather lamented that she was not permitted to 
explore the country which contains Alnwick, Hexham, Tynemouth, Holy 
Isle and so many other scenes dear to the lovers of antiquity, the fine 
arts, history, and nature. — Tr. 


250 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


easy, now seeded utterly impracticable ; yet the image of a life 
in the midst of antiquities and arts was detailed before my mind’s 
eye with so many charms, that I felt a fresh disgust at my tire- 
some existence. My talent, which I had feared to lose, had in- 
creased by my constant study of English literature. The depth 
of thought and feeling which characterizes your poets had strength- 
ened my mind without impairing my fancy. I therefore possessed 
the advantages of a double education and twofold nationalities. I 
remembered the approbation paid by a few good critics in Florence 
to my first poetical essays, and prided in the added success I 
might obtain ; in sooth, I had great hopes of myself. And is not 
such the first, the noblest illusion of youth? Methought that I 
should be mistress of the universe, the moment I escaped the 
withering breath of vulgar malice ; but when I thought of flying 
in secret, I felt awed by that opinion which swayed me much more 
in England than in Italy ; for though I could not like the town 
where I resided, I respected, as a whole, the country of which it 
was a part. If my mother-in-law had deigned to take me to Lon- 
don or Edinburgh, if she had thought of marrying me to a man 
of mind, I should never have renounced my name, even for the 
sake of returning to my own country. In fact, severe as she was, 
I never could have found the strength to alter my destiny, but for 
a multitude of circumstances which conspired to terminate my un- 
certainty. Thérésina is a Tuscan, and, though uneducated, she 
converses in those noble and melodious phrases that lend such 
grace to the discourse of our people. She was the only person 
with whom I spoke my own language ; and this tie attached me 
to her. I often found her sad, and dared not ask why, not doubt- 
ing that she, like myself, regretted our country. I knew that I 
should have been unable to restrain my own feelings, if excited 
by those of another. There are griefs that are ameliorated by 
communication ; but imaginary ills augment if confined, above all, 
to a fellow-sufferer. A woe so sanctioned we no longer strive to 
combat. My poor Thérésina suddenly became seriously ill ; and 
hearing her groan night and day, I determined to inquire the 
cause. Alas, she described exactly what I had felt myself. She 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


251 


had not reflected on the source of her pangs, and attached more 
importance to local circumstances and particular persons; but the 
sadness of the country, the insipidity of the town, the coldness of 
its natives, the constraint of their habits — she felt as I did, and 
cried incessantly : ( Oh, my native land ! shall I never see you 
more V yet added, that she would not leave me, in heart-breaking 
tones, unable to reconcile her love for me with her attachment to 
our fair skies and mother tongue. Nothing more affected my 
spirits than this reflex of my own feelings in a common mind, but 
one that had preserved the Italian taste and character in all its 
natural vivacity. I promised her that she should see her home 
again. ‘ With you?' she asked. I was silent : then she tore her 
hair, again declaring that she could never leave me, though look- 
ing ready to expire before my eyes as she said so. At last a 
promise that I would return with her escaped me; and though 
spoken but to soothe her, the joyous faith she gave it rendered it 
solemnly binding. From that day she cultivated the intimacy of 
some traders in the town, and punctually informed me when any 
vessel sailed from the neighboring port for Genoa or Leghorn. I 
heard her, but said nothing : she imitated my silence ; but her 
eyes filled with tears. My health suffered daily from the climate 
and anxiety. My mind requires gayety. I have often told you 
that grief would kill me. I struggle against it too much : to live 
beneath sorrow one must yield to it. I frequently returned to thi 
idea which had so occupied me since my father’s death ; but I 
loved Lucy dearly ; she was now nine years old ; for six had I 
watched over her like a second mother. I thought, too, that, if I 
departed privately, I should injure my own reputation, and that 
the name of my sister might thus be sullied. This apprehension, 
for the time, banished all my schemes. One evening, however, 
when I was more than usually depressed, I%>und myself alone 
with Lady Edgarmond ; and, after an hour’s silence, took so sud- 
den a distaste towards her imperturbable frigidity, that I began 
the conversation by lamenting the life I led, rather to force her 
to speak, than to achieve any other result ; but as I grew ani- 
mated, I reptesented the possibility of my leaving England for- 


252 


CORINNE} OR, ITALY. 

ever. My mother-in-law was not at all alarmed ; but with a dry 
indifference, which I shall never forget, replied ; ‘ You are of age, 
Miss Edgarmond ; your fortune is your own ; you are the mis- 
tress of your conduct; but if you take any step which would dis* 
honor you in the eyes of the world, you owe it to your family 
to change your name, and be reported dead.’ This heartless 
scorn inspired me with such indignation, that for a while a desire 
for vengeance, foreign to my nature, seized on my soul. That 
impulse left me ; but the conviction that no one was interested in 
my welfare broke every link which, till then, had bound me to 
the house where I had seen my father. His wife certainly had 
never pleased me, save by her tenderness for Lucy. I believe 
that I must have conciliated her by the pains I had bestowed on 
her child; which, perhaps, rather excited her jealousy; for the 
more sacrifices she imposed on her other inclinations, the more 
passionately she indulged the sole affection she permitted herself. 
All that is quick and ardent in the human breast, mastered by her 
reason in her other connections, spoke from her countenance when 
anything concerned her daughter. At the height of my resent- 
ment, Thérésina came to me, in extreme emotion, with tidings 
that a ship had arrived from Leghorn, on board which were some 
traders whom she knew : ‘ the best people in the world/ she 
added, weeping ; ‘ for they are all Italians, can speak nothing but 
Italian; in a week they sail again for Italy; and if madame is 

decided 7 — ‘ Return with them, my good Thérésina !” said I. 

1 No, madame; I would rather die here . 7 She left the room, and 
I mused over my duty to my step-mother. It was plain that she 
did not wish to have me with her ; my influence over Lucy dis- 
pleased her : she feared that the name I had gained there, as an 
extraordinary person^ would, one day, interfere with the establish- 
ment of my sister : she had told me the secret of her heart, in 
desiring me to pass for dead ; and this bitter advice, which had, 
at first, so shocked me, now appeared reasonable enough. ( Yes, 
doubtless I may pass for dead, where my existence is but a dis- 
turbed sleep/ said I. ‘With nature, with the sun, the arts, I 
shall awaken, and the poor letters which compose my name, 


/ 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 253 

graven on an idle tomb, will fill my station here as well as 1/ 
These mental leaps towards liberty gave me not yet sufficient 
power for a decided aim. There are moments when we trust the 
force of our own wishes; others, in which the habitual order of 
things assumes a right to overrule all the sentiments of the soul. 
I was in a state of indecision which might have lasted forever, as 
nothing obliged me to take an active part; but on the Sundaj 
following my conversation with Lady Edgarmond, I heard, towards 
evening, beneath my window, some Italians singiüg: they be- 
longed to the ship from Leghorn. Thérésina had brought them 
to give me this agreeable surprise. I cannot express what I felt : 
a torrent of tears deluged my cheeks. All my reccollections were 
revived : nothing recalls the past like music : it does more than 
depict, it conjures it back, like some beloved shape, veiled in 
mysterious melancholy. The musicians sung the delicious verses 
composed by Monti in his exile : — 

“ ‘Bella Italia! amate sponde! 

Pur vi torno, a riveder, 

Trema in petto, e si confonde, 

L’aima oppressa dal piacer!’ 

“ ‘Beauteous Italia! beloved ever! 

Shall I behold thy shore again ? 

Trembling — bewildered — my bonds I sever — 

Pleasure oppresses my heart and brain.’ 

In a kind of delirium, I felt for Italy all love can make one 
feel — desire, enthusiasm, regret. I was no longer mistress of 
myself; my whole soul was drawn towards my country : I yearned 
to see it, hear it, taste its breath ; each throb of my heart was a 
call to my own smiling land. Were life offered to the dead, they 
would not dash aside the stone that kept them in the tomb with 
more impatience than I felt to rush from all the gloom around 
me, and once more take possession of my fancy, my genius, and 
of nature. Yet, at that moment, my sensations were too confused 
for me to frame one settled idea. My step-mother entered my 
room, and begged that I would order them to cease smging, as it 
22 


254 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


was scandalous on the Sabbath. I insisted that they were to em- 
bark on the morrow, and that it was six years since I had enjoyed 
such a pleasure. She would not hear me; but said that it be- 
hooved us, above all things, to respect the customs of the place in 
which we lived ; then, from the window, bade her servants send 
my poor countrymen away. They departed, singing me, as they 
went, an adieu that pierced me to the heart. The measure of my 
temptation was full. Thérésina, at all hazards, had, unknown to 
me, made every preparation for my flight. Lucy had been away 
a week with a relative of her mother. The ashes of my father 
did not repose in the country-house we inhabited : he had ordered 
his tomb to be erected on his Scotch estate.* Enough : I set 
forth without warning my step-mother, but left a letter, apprising 
her of my plans. I started in one of those moments at which we 
give ourselves up to destiny, when anything appears preferable to 
servitude and insipidity; when youth inconsiderately trusts the 
future, and sees it, in the heavens, like a bright star that promises 
a happy lot. 


CHAPTER IY. 

“ More anxious thoughts attacked me as I lost sight of the 
English coast ; but as I had not left there any strong attachment, 
I was soon consoled, on arriving at Leghorn, and reviewing the 
charms of Italy. I told no one my true name,f and took merely 
that of Corinne, which the history of a Grecian poetess, the friend 
of Pindar, had endeared to me. (29) My person was so changed 
that I was secure against recognition. I had lived so retired in 
Florence, that I had a right to anticipate my identity’s remaining 
unknown in Rome. Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of her 
having spread the report that the physicians had prescribed a 

* Did the authoress think it usual for the English to be buried in theiï 
own grounds, whether consecrated or not? — Tr. 

j* Her real Christian name is never divulged even to the reader. Tr 


255 


< 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

voyage to the south for my health, and that I had died on my 
passage. Her letter contained no comments. She remitted, with 
great exactness, my whole fortune, which was considerable ; but 
wrote to me no more. Five years then elapsed ere I beheld you; 
during which I tasted much good fortune. My fame increased : 
the fine arts and literature afforded me even more delight in soli- 
tude than in my own success. I knew not, till I met you, the v 
full power of sentiment : my imagination sometimes colored aud 
discolored my illusions without giving me great uneasiness. 1 
had not yet been seized by any affection capable of overruling 
me. Admiration, respect, and love had not enchained all the 
faculties of my soul ; I conceived more charms than I ever found, 
and remained superior to my own impressions. Do not insist on 
me describing to you how two men, whose passion for me is but 
too generally known, successively occupied my life, before I knew 
you. I outrage my own conviction in now reminding myself that 
any one, save you, could ever have interested me : on this subject 
I feel equal grief and repentance. I shall only tell you what you 
have already heard from my friends. My free life so much 
pleased me, that, after long irresolutions and painful scenes, I 
twice broke the ties which the necessity of loving had made me 
contract, and could not resolve to render them irrevocable. A 
German noble would have married and taken me to his own 
country. An Italian prince offered me a most brilliant establish- 
ment in Dome. The first pleased and inspired me with the 
highest esteem; but, in time, I perceived that he had few mental 
resources. When we were alone together, it cost me great trouble 
to sustain a conversation, and conceal from him his own deficien- 
cies. I dared not display myself at my best for fear of embar- 
rassing him. I foresaw that his regard for me must necessarily 
decrease when I should cease to manage him ; and it is difficult, 
in such a case, to keep up one’s enthusiasm : a woman’s feeling 
for a man any way inferior tc herself is rather pity than love ; and 
the calculations, the reflections required by such a state, wither 
the celestial nature of an involuntary sentiment. The Italian 
prince was all grace and fertility of mind : he participated in my 


256 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


tastes, and loved my way of life ; but, on an important occasion, 
I remarked that he wanted energy, and that, in any difficulties, I 
should have to sustain and fortify him. There was an end of 
love — for women need support; and nothing chills them more 
than the necessity of affording it. Thus was I twice undeceived, 
not by faults or misfortunes, but by the spirit of observation, 
which detected what imagination had concealed. I believed myself 
destined never to love with the full power of my soul : sometimes 
this idea pained me ; but more frequently I applauded my own 
freedom — fearing the capability of suffering that impassioned im- 
pulse which might threaten my happiness and my life. I always 
reassured myself in thinking that my judgment was not easily 
captivated, and that no man could answer my ideal of masculine 
mind and character. I hoped ever to escape the absolute power 
of love, by perceiving some defects in those who charmed me. I 
then knew not that there are faults which increase our passion by 
the inquietude they cause. Oswald ! the melancholy indecision 
which discourages you — the severity of your opinions — troubles 
my repose, without decreasing my affection. I often think that it 
will never make me happy; but then it is always myself I judge, 
and not you. And now you know my history — my flight from 
England — my change of name — my heart’s inconstancy : I have 
concealed nothing. Doubtless you think that fancy hath oft mis- 
led me ; but, if society bound us not by chains from which men 
are free, what were there in my life which should prevent your 
loving me ? Have I ever deceived ? have I ever wronged any 
one ? has my mind been seared by vulgar interests ? Sincerity, 
good-will, and pride — does God ask more from an orphan alone 
in the world ? Happy the women who, in their early youth, meet 
those they ought to love forever ; but do I the less deserve you for 
having known you too late ? Yet, I assure you, my Lord, and 
you may trust my frankness, could I but pass my life near you, 
methinks, despite the loss of the greatest happiness and glory I 
can imagine; I would not be your wife. Perhaps such marriage 
were to you a sacrifice : you may one day regret the fair Lucy, 
my sister to whom your father destined you. She is twelve 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 257 

years my younger ; her name is stainless as the first flower of 
spring ; we should be obliged, in England, to revive mine, which 
is now as that of the dead. Lucy, I know, has a pure and gentle 
spirit ; if I may judge from her childhood, she may become capable 
of understanding — loving you. Oswald, you are free. When you 
desire it, your ring shall be restored to you. Perhaps you wish 
to hear, ere you decide, what I shall suffer if you leave me. I 
know not : sometimes impetuous impulses arise within me, that 
overrule my reason : should I be to blame, then, if they rendered 
life insupportable ? It is equally true that I have a great faculty 
of happiness; it interests me in everything: I converse with 
pleasure, and revel in the minds of others — in the friendship 
they show me — in all the wonders of art and nature, which affec- 
tation hath not stricken dead. But would it be in my power to 
live when I no longer saw you? it is for you to judge, Oswald: 
you know me better than I know myself. I am not responsible 
for what I may experience : it is he who plants the dagger should 
guess whether the wound is mortal ; but if it were so, I should 
forgive you. My happiness entirely depends on the affection you 
have paid me for the last six months. I defy all your delicacy 
to blind me, were it in the least degree impaired. Banish from 
your mind all idea of duty. In love, I acknowledged no promises 
no security : God alone can raise the flower which storms have 
blighted. A tone, a look, will be enough to tell me that your 
heart is not the same ; and I shall detest all you may offer me 
instead of love — your love, that heavenly ray, my only glory ! 
Be free, then, Nevil ! now — ever — even if my husband; for, did 
you cease to love, my death would free you from bonds that else 
would be indissoluble. When you have read this, I would see 
you : my impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read 
my fate at a glance; for grief is a rapid poison — and the heart, 
though weak, never mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny. 

“Adieu.” 


22 * 


253 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


BOOK XV. 

THE ADIEU TO ROME, AND JOURNEY TO VENICE. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was with deep emotion that Oswald read the narrative of 
Corinne : many and varied were the confused thoughts that agi- 
tated him. Sometimes he felt hurt by the picture she drew of an 
English country, and despairingly exclaimed : “ Such a woman 
could never be happy in domestic life !” then he pitied what she 
had suffered there, and could not but admire the simple frankness 
of her recital. He was jealous of the affection she had felt ere 
she met him; and the more he sought to hide this from himself, 
the more it tortured him; but above all was he afflicted by his 
father’s part in her history. His anguish was such that, not 
knowing what he did, he rushed forth beneath the noonday sun, 
when the streets of Naples were deserted, and their inhabitants 
all secluded in the shade. He hurried at random towards Portici : 
the beams which fell on his brow at once excited and bewildered 
his ideas. Corinne, meanwhile, having waited for some hours, 
could no longer resist her desire to see him. She entered his 
room ; he was not there : his absence at such a crisis, fearfully 
alarmed her. She saw her papers on the table, and doubted not 
that, after reading them, he had left her forever. Each moment’s 
attempt at patience added to her distress; she walked the chamber 
hastily, then stopped, in fear of losing the least sound that might 
announce his return ; at last, unable to control her anxiety, she 
descended to inquire if any one had seen Lord Nevil go out, and 
which way he went. The master of the inn replied : “ Towards 
Portici;” adding, “that his Lordship surely would not walk far 
at such a dangerous period of the day.” This terror, blending 
with so many others, determined Corinne to follow him, though 
her head was undefended from the sun. The large white pave- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


259 


ments of Naples, formed of lava, redoubling the light and heat, 
scorched and dazzled her as she walked. She did not intend 
going to Portici, yet advanced towards it with increasing speed, 
meeting no one ; for even the animals now shrunk from the ardors 
of the clime. Clouds of dust filled the air, with the slightest 
breeze, covering the fields, and concealing all appearance of ver- 
dant life. Every instant Corinne felt about to fall ; not even a 
tree was near to support her. Reason reeled in this burning 
desert : a few steps more, and she might reach the royal palace, 
beneath whose porch she would find both shade and water; but 
her strength failed — she could no longer see her way — her head 
swam — a thousand flames, more vivid even than the blaze of day, 
danced before her eyes — an unrefreshing darkness suddenly suc- 
ceeded them — a cruel thirst consumed her. One of the Lazza- 
roni, the only human creature expected to brave these fervid 
horrors, now came up; she prayed him to bring her a little water; 
but the man beholding so beautiful and elegant a woman alone, 
on foot, at such an hour^ concluded that she must be insane, and 
ran from her in dismay. Fortunately, Oswald at this moment 
returned : the voice of Corinne reached his ear. He hastened 
towards her, as she was falling to the earth insensible, and bore 
her to the palace portico, where he called her back to life by the 
tenderest cares. As she recognized him, her senses still wandered, 
and she wildly exclaimed : “ You promised never to depart with- 
out my consent! I may now appear unworthy of your love; but 
a promise, Oswald !’ 7 — “ Corinne , 77 he cried, “the thought of 
leaving you never entered my heart. I would only reflect on our 
fate ; and wished to recover my spirits ere I saw you again . 77 — 
“ Well , 77 she said, struggling to appear calm, “you have had time, 
during the long hours that might have cost my life; time enough 
— therefore speak! tell me what you have resolved !’ 7 Oswald, 
terrified at the accents, which betrayed her inmost feelings, knelt 
before her, answering, “ Corinne, my heart is unchanged ; what 
nave I learned that should dispel your enchantment? Only hear 
me ; 77 and as she trembled still more violently, he added, with much 
earnestness : “ Listen fearlessly to one who cannot live, and know 


260 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


thou art unhappy.” — “Ah,” she sighed, “it is of my happiness 
you speak ; your own, then, no longer depends on me ? Yet I 
repulse not your pity ; for, at this moment, I have need of it : but 
think you I will live for that alone?” — “No, no, we will both 
live for love. I will return.” — “Return !” interrupted Corinne, 
“ Ah, you do go, then ? What has happened ? how is all changed 
since yesterday ! hapless wretch that I am!” — “Dearest love,” 
returned Oswald, “ be composed ; and let me, if I can, explain 
my meaning; it is better than you suppose, much better; but it 
is necessary, nevertheless, that I should ascertain my father’s 
reasons for opposing our union seven years since : he never men- 
tioned the subject to me; but his most intimate surviving friend, 
in England, must know his motives. If, as I believe, they sprung 
from unimportant circumstances, I can pardon your desertion of 
your father’s land and mine; to so noble a country love may 
attach you yet, and bid you prefer homefelt peace, with its gentle 
and natural virtues, even to the fame of genius. I will hope 
everything, do everything; if my father decides against thee, 
Corinne, I will never be the husband of another, though then I 
cannot be thine.” A cold dew stood on his brow : the effort he 
had made to speak thus cost him so much agony, that for some 
time Corinne could think of nothing but the sad state in which 
she beheld him. At last she took his hand, crying, “ So, you 
return to England without me.” Oswald was silent. “ Cruel !” 
she continued: “you say nothing to contradict my fears; they 
are just, then, though even while saying so I cannot yet believe 
it.” — “ Thanks to your cares,” answered Nevil, « I have regained 
the life so nearly lost : it belongs to my country during the war. 
If I can marry you, we part no more. I will restore you to 
your rank in England. If this too happy lot should be forbidden 
me, I shall return, with the peace, to Italy, stay with you long, 
and change your fate in nothing save in giving you one faithful 
friend the more.” — ‘ Not change my fate !” she repeated ; “ you, 
who have become my only interest in the world ! to whom I owe 
the intoxicating draught which gives happiness or death ? Yet 
tell me, at least, this parting, when must it be ? How many days 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


261 


are left me ?” — “ Beloved !” he cried, pre*sing her to his heart, “ I 
swear, that for three months I will not leave thee ; not, perhaps, 
even then.” — “ Three months !” she burst forth; “am I to live 
bo long? it is much, I did not hope so much. Come, I feel 
better. Three months? — what a futurity!” she added, with a 
mixture of joy and sadness, that profoundly affected Oswald , and 
both, in silence, entered the carriage which took them back to 
Naples. 


CHAPTER II. 

Castel Forte awaited them at the inn. A report had been 
circulated of their marriage : it greatly pained the Prince, yet he 
came to assure himself of the fact; to regain, as a friend, the 
society of his love, even if she were forever united to another. 
The state of dejection in which he beheld her, for the first time, 
occasioned him much uneasiness ; but he dared not question her, 
as she seemed to avoid all conversation on this subject. There 
ire situations in which we dread to confide in any one ; a single 
word, that we might say or hear, would suffice to dissipate the 
illusion that supports our life. The self-deceptions of impassioned 
sentiment have the peculiarity of humoring the heart, as we 
humor a friend whom we fear to afflict by the truth ; thus, un- 
consciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection of our own 
pity. 

Next day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to attempt 
producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear gay ; believ- 
ing that the best method of retaining Oswald was to seem as at- 
tractive as formerly. She, therefore, introduced some interesting 
topic ; but suddenly her abstraction returned, her eyes wandered ; 
the woman who had possessed the greatest possible faculty of address 
now hesitated in her choice of words, and sometimes used expres- 
sions that bore not the slightest reference to what she intended 
saying: then she would laugh at herself, though through tears; 
and Oswald, overwhelmed by the wreck he had made, would have 


262 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

sought to be alone witheher, bat she carefully denied him an op* 
portunity. 

u What would you learn from me ?” she said one day, when 
for an instant, he insisted on speaking with her. “ I regret my- 
self — that is all ! I had some pride in my talents. I loved suc- 
cess, glory. The praises, even of indifferent persons, were objects 
of my ambition ; now I care for nothing; and it is not happiness 
that weans me from these vain pleasures, but a vast discourage- 
ment. I accuse not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I may 
yet triumph over it. Many things pass in the depths of the soul 
that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you justice, 
Oswald : I see you suffer for me. I sympathize with you, too ; 
why should not pity bestow her gifts on us ? Alas ! they might 
be offered to all who breathe, without proving very inapplicable.” 

Oswald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne. He 
loved her strongly ; but her history had wounded his affections, 
his way of thinking. He seemed to perceive clearly that his 
father had prejudged everything for him; and that he could 
only wed Corinne in defiance of such warning ; yet how resign 
her ? His uncertainty was more painful than that which he hoped 
to terminate by a knowledge of her life. On her part, she had 
not wished that the tie of marriage should unite her to Oswald : 
so she could have been certain that he would never leave her, she 
would have wanted no more to render her content; but, she knew 
him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no hap- 
piness save in domestic life; and would never abjure the design 
of marrying her, unless in ceasing to lové. His departure for 
England appeared the signal for her death. She was aware how 
great an influence the manners and opinions of his country held 
over his mind. Vainly did he talk of passing his life with her 
in Italy; she doubted not that, once returned to his home, the 
thought of quitting it again would be odious to him. She felt 
that she owed her power to her charms ; and what is that power 
in absence ? What are the memories of imagination to a man 
encircled by all the realities of social order, the more imperious from 
being founded on pure and noble reason ? Tormented by these 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


263 


reflections, Corinne strove to exert some power over her fondness. 
She tried to speak with Castel Forte on literature and the fine 
arts : but, if Oswald joined them, the dignity of his mien, the 
melancholy look which seemed to ask, “ Why will you renounce 
me?” disconcerted all her attempts. Twenty times would she 
have told him, that his irresolution offended her, and that she 
was decided to leave him; but she saw him now lean his head 
upon his hand, as if bending breathless beneath his sorrows ; now 
musing beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven, at the sound 
of music ; and these simple changes, whose magic was known but 
to herself, suddenly overthrew her determination. A look, an 
accent, a certain grace of gesture, reveals to love the nearest 
secrets of the soul ; and, perhaps, a countenance, so apparently 
cold as NeviFs, can never be read, save by those to whom it is 
dearest. Impartiality guesses nothing, judges only by what is 
displayed. Corinne, in solitude, essayed a test which had suc- 
ceeded when she had but believed that she loved. She taxed her 
spirit of observation (which was capable of detecting the slightest 
foibles) to represent Oswald beneath less seducing colors; but 
there was nothing about him less than noble, simple, and affect- 
ing. How then defeat the spell of so perfectly natural a mind ? 
It is only affectation which can at once awaken the heart, as- 
tonished at ever having loved. Besides, there existed between 
Oswald and Corinne a singular, all-powerful sympathy. Their 
tastes were not the same ; their opinions rarely accorded ; yet in 
the centre of each soul dwelt kindred mysteries, drawn from one 
source; a secret likeness, that attests the same nature, however 
differently modified by external circumstances. Corinne, there- 
fore, found, to her dismay, that she had but increased her passion, 
by thus minutely considering Oswald anew, even in her very 
struggle against his image. She invited Castel Forte to return 
to Rome with them. Nevil knew she did this to avoid being 
alone with him : he felt it sadly, but could not oppose. He was 
no longer persuaded that what he might offer Corinne would 
constitute her content; and this thought rendered him timid. 
She, the while, had hoped that lie would refuse the Prince's 


264 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

company. Their situation was no longer honest as of old ; though 
as yet without actual dissimulation, restraint already troubled a 
regard, which for six months had daily conferred on them a bliss 
almost unqualified. Returning by Capua and Gaëta, scenes which 
she had so lately visited with such delight, Corinne felt that these 
beauties vainly called on her to reflect their smile. When such a 
sky fails to disperse the clouds of care, its laughing contrast bï.’j 
augments their gloom. 

They arrived at Terracina on a deliciously refreshing eve. Co- 
rinne withdrew after supper. Oswald went forth, and his heart, 
like hers, led him towards the spot where they had rested on their 
way to Naples. He beheld her kneeling before the rock on which 
they sat ; and, as he looked on the moon, saw that she was veiled 
by a cloud, as she had been two months since at that hour. Co- 
rinne, at his approach, rose, and pointing upwards, said : “ Have 
I not reason to believe in omens ? Is there not some compassion 
in that heaven? It warned me of the future; and to-night, you 
see, it mourns for me. Forget not, Oswald, to remark, if such 
cloud passes not over the moon when I am dying.” — “ Corinne,” 
he cried, “ have I deserved that you should kill me ? It were 
easily done: speak thus again, and you will see how easily — but 
for what crime? Your mode of thinking lifts you above the 
world’s opinion : in your country it is not severe; and if it were, 
your genius could surmount it. Whatever happens, I will live 
near you; whence, then, this despair? If I cannot be your 
husband, without offence to the memory of one who reigns equally 
with yourself in my breast — do you not love me well enough to 
find some solace in the tender devotion of mine every instant ? 
Have you not still my ring — that sacred pledge ?” — “ I will re- 
turn it, Oswald.” — “ Never!” — “Ah, yes; when you desire it, 
the ring itself will tell me. An old legend says that the dia- 
mond, more true than man, dims when the giver has betrayed 
our trust. ”(30) — “Corinne,” said Oswald, “dare you speak such 
treason? your mind is lost; it no longer knows me.” — « Pardon ! 
oh, pardon me ! in love like mine, the heart, Oswald, is gifted 
suddenly with most miraculous instincts; and its own sufferings 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


265 


become oracles. What portends, then, the heavy palpitation of 
my heart ? Ah, love, I should not fear it, if it were hut my knell !” 
She fled, precipitately, dreading to remain longer with him. 
She could not dally with her grief, but sought to break' from it; 
yet it returned but the more violently for her repulse. The next 
day, as they crossed the Pontine Marsh, Oswald’s care of her was 
even more scrupulous than before; she received it with the sweet- 
est thankfulness : but there was something in her look that said : 
“ Why will you not let me die ?” 


CHAPTER III. 

What a desert seems Rome, 'in going to it from Naples ! En- 
tering by the gate of St. John Lateran, you traverse but long, 
solitary streets; they please afresh after a little time: but, on 
just leaving a lively, dissipated population, it is melancholy to be 
thrown upon one’s self, even were that self at ease. Besides this, 
Rome, towards the end of July, is a dangerous residence. The 
malaria renders many quarters uninhabitable ; and the contagion 
often spreads through the whole city. This year, particularly, 
every face bore the impress of apprehension. Corinne was met 
at her own door by a monk, who asked leave to bless her house 
against infection : she consented ; and the priest walked through 
the rooms, sprinkling holy water, and repeating Latin prayers. 
Lord Nevil smiled at this ceremony — Corinne’s heart melted over 
it. “ I find indefinable charms,” she said, “ in all that is reli- 
gious, or even superstitious, while nothing hostile nor intolerant 
blends with it. Divine aid is so needful, when our thoughts stray 
from the common path, that the highest minds most require su- 
perhuman care.” — “ Doubtless such want exists, but can it thus 
be satisfied ?” — “ I never refuse a prayer associated with my own, 
from whomsoever it is offered me.” — “ You are right,” said Nevil, 
giving his purse to the old friar, who departed with benedictions 
on them both. When the friends of Corinne heard of her return, 
83 


266 i CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

they flocked to see her : if any wondered that she was not Os- 
wald’s wife, none, at least, asked the reason : the pleasure of re- 
gaining her diverted them from every other thought. Corinne 
endeavored to appear unchanged; but she could not succeed. 
She revisited the works of art that once afforded her such vivid 
pleasure ; but sorrow was the base of her every feeling now. At 
the Villa Borghese, or the tomb of Cecilia Metella, she no longer 
enjoyed that reverie on the instability of human blessings, which 
lends them a still more touching character. A fixed, despondent 
pensiveness absorbed her. Nature, who ever speaks to the heart 
vaguely, can do nothing for it when oppressed by real calamities. 
Oswald and Corinne were worse than unhappy; for actual misery 
oft causes such emotions as relieve the laden breast ; and from 
the storm may burst a flash pointing the onward way : but mutual 
restraint, and fruitless efforts to escape pursuing recollections, 
made them even discontented with one another. Indeed, how 
can we suffer thus, without accusing the being we love as the 
cause ? True, a word, a look, suffices to efface our displeasure ; 
but that look, that word, may not comejtvhen most expected, or 
most needful. Nothing in love can be premeditated ; it is zz a 
power divine, that thinks and feels within us, unswayed by our 
control. 

A fever, more malignant than had been known in Home for 
some years, now broke out suddenly. A young woman was at- 
tacked ; her friends and family refused to fly, and perished with 
her. The next house experienced the same devastation. Every 
hour a holy fraternity, veiled in white, accompanied the dead to 
interment; themselves appearing like the ghosts of those they 
followed. The bodies, with their faces uncovered, are borne on 
a kind of litter. Over their feet is thrown a pall of gold or rose- 
colored satin ; and children often unconsciously play with the cold 
hands of the corpse. This spectacle, at once terrific and familiar, 
is graced but by the monotonous murmur of a psalm, in which 
the accent of the human soul can scarce be recognized. One 
evening, when Oswald and Corinne were alone together, and he 
more depressed than usual by her altered manner, he heard, be- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


267 


Death the windows, these dreary sounds, announcing a funeral; 
he listened awhile in silence, and then said : u Perhaps to-morrow 
I may be seized by this same malady, against which there is no 
defence; you will then wish that you had said a few kind words 
to me on the day that may be my last. Corinne, death threatens 
us both closely. Are there not miseries enough in life, that we 
should thus mutually augment each other’s ?” Struck by the 
idea of his danger, she now entreated him to leave Rome instant- 
ly; he stubbornly refused : she then proposed their going to 
Venice; to this he cheerfully assented : it was for her alone that 
he had trembled. Their departure was fixed for the second day 
from this; but on that morning, Oswald, who had not seen Co- 
rinne the night before, received a note, informing him that in- 
dispensable business obliged her to visit Florence ; but that she 
should rejoin him at Venice in a fortnight; she begged him to 
take Ancona in his way, and gave him a seemingly important 
commission to execute for her there. Her style was more calm 
and considerate than he had found it since they left Naples. 
He believed her implicitly, and prepared for his journey ; but, 
wishing once more to behold the dwelling of Corinne ere he left 
Rome, he went thither, found it shut up, and rapped at the door. 
An old woman appeared, told him that all the other servants had 
gone with her mistress, and would not answer another word to 
his numerous questions. He hastened to Prince Castel Forte, 
who was as surprised as himself at Corinne’s abrupt retirement. 
Nevil, all anxiety, imagined that her agent at Tivoli must have 
received some instructions as to her affairs. He mounted his 
horse with a promptitude unusual to him, and, in extreme agita- 
tion, rode to her country house ; its doors were open ; he entered, 
passed some of the rooms without meeting any one, till he reached 
that of Corinne : though darkness reigned there, he saw her on 
her bed, with Thérésina alone beside her; he uttered a cry of re- 
cognition : it recalled her to consciousness : she raised herself, 
saying eagerly : u Do not come near me ! I forbid you ! I die if 
you do !” 

Oswald felt as if his beloved were accusing him of some crira« 


268 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


which she had all at once suspected : believing himself hated — 
scorned — he fell on his knees, with despairing submission which 
suggested to Corinne the idea of profiting by this mistake, and 
she commanded him to leave her forever, as if he had in truth 
been guilty. Speechless with wonder, he would have obeyed, 
when Thérésina sobbed forth : “ Oh, my Lord ! will you, then, 
desert my dear lady? She has sent every one away, and would 
fain banish me too : for she has caught the' infectious fever !” 

These words instantly explained the affecting stratagem of Co- 
rinne ; and Oswald clasped her to his heart, with a transport of 
tenderness, such as he had never before experienced. In vain she 
repelled him ; in vain she reproached Thérésina. Oswald bade the 
good creature withdraw, and lavished his tearful kisses on the face 
of his adored. u Now, now,” he cried, “thou shalt not die with- 
out me : if the fatal poison be in thy veins, at least, thank Heaven, 
I breathe it in thine arms.” — “Dear, cruel Oswald !” she sighed, 
“ to what tortures you condemn me ! 0 God ! since he will not live 
without me, let not my better angel perish ! no, save him, save 
him !” Here her strength was lost, and, for eight days, she re- 
mained in the greatest danger. In the midst of her delirium, she 
would cry : “ Keep Oswald from me ! let him not come here ! never 
tell him where I am !” When her reason returned, she gazed on 
him, murmuring : “ Oswald ! in death as in life you are with me ; 
we shall be reunited.” When she perceived how pale he was, 
a deadly terror seized her, and she called to his aid the physicians, 
who had given her. a strong proof of devotion in never having 
abandoned her. Oswald constantly held her burning hands in 
his, and finished the cup of which she had drunk ; in fact, with 
such avidity did he share her perils, that she herself ceased at 
last to combat this passionate self-sacrifice. Leaning her head 
upon his arm, she resigned herself to his will. The beings who 
so love that they feel the impossibility of living without each 
other, may well attain the noble and tender intimacy which puts 
all things in common, even death itself. (31) Happily, Lord 
Nevil did not take the disease through which he so carefully 
nursed Corinne. She recovered ; but another malady penetrated 


269 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

yet deeper into her breast. The generosity of her lover, alas ! 
redoubled the attachment she had borne him. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was agreed that Neville and Corinne should visit Venice. 
They had relapsed into silence on their future prospects, but 
spoke of their affection more confidingly than ever : both avoided 
all topics that could disturb their present mutual peace. A day 
passed with him was to her such enjoyment ! he seemed so to 
revel in her conversation; he followed her every impulse; 
studied her slightest wish, with so sustained an interest, that it 
appeared impossible he could bestow so much felicity without 
himself being happy. Corinne drew assurances of safety from 
the bliss she tasted. After some months of such habits we believe 
them inseparable from our exjstence. Her agitation was calmed 
again, and her natural heedlessness of the future returned. Yet, 
on the eve of quitting Rome, she became extremely melancholy : 
this time she both hoped and feared that it was forever. The 
night before her departure, unable to sleep, she heard a troop of 
Romans singing in the moonlight. She could not resist her de- 
sire to follow them, and once more wander through that beloved 
scene.. She dressed; and bidding her servants keep the carriage 
within sight of her, put on a veil, to avoid recognition, and at 
some distance, pursued the musicians. They paused on the 
bridge of St. Angelo, in front of Adrian’s tomb : in such a spot 
music seems to express the vanities and splendors of the world. 
One might fancy one beheld in the air the imperial shade won- 
dering to find no other trace left of his power on earth except 
a tomb. The band continued their walk, singing as they went, 
to the silent night, when the happy ought to. sleep : their pure 
and gentle melodies seem designed to solace wakeful suffering. 
Drawn onward by this resistless spell, Corinne, insensible to fa- 
tigue, seemed winging her way along. They also sang before 
23 * 


270 


CORINNEj OR, ITALY. 


Antoninus’s pillar, and then at Trajan’s column r they saluted 
the obelisk of St. John Lateran. The ideal language of music 
worthily mates the ideal expression of works like these : enthu- 
siasm reigns alone, while vulgar interests slumber. At last the 
singers departed, and left Corinne near the Coliseum : she wished 
to enter its inclosure and bid adieu to ancient Rome. 

Those who have seen this place but by day cannot judge 
of the impression it may make. The sun of Italy should shine 
on festivals; but the moon is the light for ruins. Sometimes, 
through the openings of the amphitheatre, which seems towering 
to the clouds, a portion of heaven’s vault appears like a dark blue 
curtain. The plants that cling to the broken walls all wear the 
hues of night. The soul at once shudders and melts on finding 
itself alone with nature. One side of this edifice is much more 
fallen than the other; the two contemporaries make an unequal 
struggle against time. He fells the weakest; the other still 
resists, but soon must yield. 

“ Ye solemn scenes!” cried Corinne, u where, at this hour, no 
being breathes beside me — where but the echoes of my own voice 
answer me — how are the storms of passion calmed by nature, who 
thus peacefully permits so many generations to glide by ! Has 
not the universe some better end than man ? or are its marvels 
scattered here, merely to be reflected in his mind ? Oswald ! why 
do I love with such idolatry ? why live but for the feelings of a 
day compared to the infinite hopes that unite us with divinity ? 
My God ! if it be true, as I believe, that we admire thee 
the more capable we are of reflection, make my own mind my 
refuge against my heart ! The noble being whose gentle looks I 
cau never forget is but a perishable mortal like myself. Among 
the stars there is eternal love, alone sufficing to a boundless 
heart.” Corinne remained long in these ideas, and, at last, 
turned slowly towards her own abode ; but, ere she re-entered it, 
she wished to await the dawn at St. Peter’s, and from its dome 
take her last leave of all beneath. Her imagination represented 
this edifice as it must be, when, in its turn, a wreck — the theme 
of wonder for yet unborn ages. The cclumns, now erect, half 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


271 


bedded in earth ; the porch dilapidated, with the Egyptian obelisk 
exulting over the decay of novelties, wrought for an earthly im- 
mortality. From the summit of St. Peter’s Corinne beheld day 
rise over Rome, which, in its uncultivated Campagna, looks like 
the oasis of a Libyan desert. Devastation is around it; but the 
multitude of spires and cupolas, over which St. Peter’s rises, give 
a strange beauty to its aspect. This city may boast one peculiar 
charm : we love it as an animated being : its very ruins are as 
friends, from whom we cannot part without- farewell. 

Corinne addressed the Pantheon, St. Angelo’s, and all the sites 
that once renewed the pleasures of her fancy. “ Adieu !” she 
said, “ land of remembrances ! scenes where life depends not on 
events, nor on society ; where enthusiasm refreshes itself through 
the eyes, and links the soul to each external object. I leave you, 
to follow Oswald, not knowing to what fate he may consign me. 
I prefer him to the independence which here afforded me such 
happy days. I may return to more; but for a broken heart 
and blighted mind, ye arts and monuments so oft invoked, while 
I was exiled beneath his stormy sky, ye could do nothing to 
console !” 

She wept; yet thought not, for an instant, of letting Oswald 
depart without her. Resolutions springing from the heart we 
often justly blame, yet hesitate not to adopt. Wheh passion 
masters a superior mind, it separates ou.r judgment from our 
conduct, and need not cloud the one in order to overrule the 
other. 

Corinne’s black curls and veil floating on the breeze gave her 
so picturesque an air, that, as she left the church, the common 
people recognised and followed her to her carriage with the 
warmest testimonials of respect. She sighed again, at parting 
from a race so ardent and so graceful in their expressions of 
esteem. Nor was this all. She had to endure the regrets of her 
friends They devised fêtes in order to delay her departure : 
their poetical tributes strove in a thousand ways to convince her 
that she ought to stay; and finally they accompanied her on horse- 
back for twenty miles. She was extremely affected. Oswald 


272 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

cast down his eyes in confusion, reproaching himself for tearing 
her from so much delight, though he knew that an offer of re- 
maining there would be more barbarous still. He appeared selfish 
in removing Corinne from Rome ; yet he was not so ) for the fear 
of afflicting her, by setting forth alone, had more weight with him 
than even the hope of retaining her presence. He knew not what 
he was about to do — saw nothing beyond Venice. He had written 
to inquire how soon his regiment would be actively employed in 
tke war, and awaited a reply. Sometimes he thought of taking 
Corinne with him to England ) yet instantly remembered that he 
should forever ruin her reputation by so doing, unless she were 
his wife ; then he wished to soften the pangs of separation by a 
private marriage; but a moment afterwards gave up that plan 
also. “ We can keep no secrets from the dead,” he cried : “and 
what should I gain by making a mystery of a union prohibited 
by nothing but my worship of a tomb?” His mind, so weak in 
all that concerned his affections, was sadly agitated by contending 
sentiments. Corinne resigned herself to him, like a victim, ex- 
ulting, amid her sorrows, in the sacrifices she made; while Oswald, 
responsible for the welfare of another, bound himself to her daily 
by new ties, without the power of yielding to them ; and unhappy 
in his love as in his conscience, felt the presence of both but in 
their combats with each other. 

When the friends of Corinne took leave, they commended her 
earnestly to his care ; congratulated him on the love of so eminent 
a woman ; their every word sounding like mockery and upbraiding. 
She felt this, and hastily concluded the trying scene; and when, 
after turning from time to time to salute her, they were at last 
lost to her sight, she only said to her lover : “ Oswald ! I have 
now no one but you in the world !” How did he long to swear 
he would be hers! But frequent disappointments teach us to 
mistrust our own inclinations, and shrink even from the vows our 
hearts may prompt. Corinne read his thoughts, and delicately 
strove to fix his attention on the country through which thej 
travelled. 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 


2? 


CHAPTER Y. 

It was the beginning of September, and the weather super* 
till they neared the Apennines, where they felt the approach oi 
winter. A soft air is seldom united with the pleasure of looking 
on picturesque mountains. One evening, a terrible hurricane 
arose : the thickest darkness closed around them ; and the horses, 
so wild there that they are even harnessed by stratagem, set off 
with inconceivable rapidity. Our lovers felt much excited by 
being thus hurried on together. “Ah !” cried Oswald, “ if they 
could bear us from all I know on earth — if they could climb these 
hills, and dash into another life, where we should regain my father, 
who would receive and bless us, would you not go with me, be- 
loved?” He pressed her vehemently to his bosom. Corinne, 
enamored as himself, replied : “Dispose of me as you will; chain 
me like a slave to your fate : had not the slaves of other days 
talents that soothed their masters? Such would I be to thee. 
But, Oswald, yet respect her who thus trusts thee : condemned 
by all the world, she must not blush to meet thine eye.” — “ No,” 
he exclaimed, “ I will lose all, or all obtain. I ought, I must 
either live thy husband, or die in stifling the transports of my 
passion : but I will hope to be thine before the world, and glory 
in thy tenderness. Yet tell me, I conjure thee, have I not sunk 
in thine esteem by all these struggles ? Canst thou believe thy- 
self less dear than ever?” His accents were so sincere, that, for 
awhile, they gave her back her confidence, and the purest, sweet- 
est rapture animated them both. 

Meanwhile the horses stopped. Oswald alighted first. The 
cold sharp wind almost made him fancy himself landing in 
England : this freezing air was not like that of Italy, which bids 
young breasts forget all things save love. Oswald sank back into 
his gloom. Corinne, who knew the unsettled nature of his fancy, 
but too well guessed the cause. On the morrow they arrived at 
our Lady of Loretto, which stands upon an eminence, from whence 
»« seen the Adriatic. While Oswald gave some orders for theif 


274 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


journey, Corinne entered the church, where the image of the 
Virgin is inclosed in the choir of a small chapel, adorned with 
bas-reliefs. The marble pavement that surrounds the sanctuary 
is worn by pilgrim knees. Corinne, moved by these marks of 
prayer, knelt on the stones so often pressed by the unfortunate, 
and addressed the type of heavenly truth and sensibility. Os- 
wald here found her bathed in tears. He did not understand 
how a woman of her mind could bow to the practices of the igno- 
rant. She guessed this by his looks, and said : “ Dear Oswald, 
are there not many moments when we dare not raise our hopes to 
the Supreme Being, or breathe to him the sorrows of our hearts ? 
Is it not pleasing, then, to behold a woman as intercessor for our 
human weakness ? She suffered on this earth, for she lived on 
it; to her I blush not to pray for you, when a petition to God 
himself would overawe me.” — “I cannot always directly suppli- 
cate my Maker,” replied Oswald. “ 1, too, have my intercessor : 
the guardian angel of children is their father : and since mine has 
been in heaven, I have oft received an unexpected solace, aid, 
and composure, which I can but attribute to the miraculous pro- 
tection whence I still hope to escape from my perplexities.” — “ I 
comprehend you,” said Corinne, “and believe there is no one 
who has not some mysterious idea of his own destiny — one event 
which he has always dreaded, and which, though improbable, is 
sure to happen. The punishment of some fault, though it be 
impossible to trace the connection our misfortunes have with it, 
often strikes the imagination. From my childhood I trembled at 
the idea of living in England. Well; my inability to do so may 
be my worst regret; and on that point I feel there is something 
unconquerable in my fate, against which I straggle in vain. 
E?ery one conceives his life interiorly a contrast to what it seems 
we have a confused sense of some supernatural power, disguised 
in the form of external circumstance, while itself alone is the 
source of all our actions. Dear friend, minds capable of rea- 
soning forever plunge into their own abyss, but always fail to 
fathom it.” 

Oswald, as he heard her speak thus, wondered to find that, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


275 


while she was capable of such glowing sentiments, her judgment 
still could hover over them, like their presiding genius. ‘‘No/’ 
he frequently said to himself, “no other society on earth can 
satisfy the man who has possessed such a companion as this.” 

They entered Ancona at night, as he wished not to be recog- 
nized : in spite of his precautions, however, he was so ; and thc- 
next morning all the inhabitants crowded about the house in 
which he stayed, awaking Corinne by shouts of “ Long live Lord 
Nevil, our benefactor !” She started, rose hastily, and mingled 
with the crowd, to hear their praises of the man she loved. Os- 
wald, informed that the people were impatiently calling for him, 
was at last obliged to appear. He believed Corinne still slept: 
what was his astonishment at finding her already known and 
cherished by the grateful multitude, who entreated her to be their 
interpretress! Corinne* s imagination — by turns her charm and 
her defect — delighted in extraordinary adventures. She thanked 
Lord Nevil, in the name of the people, with a grace so noble that 
the natives were in ectasies. Speaking for them, she said : “ You 
preserved us — we owe you our lives!” But when she offered 
him the oak and laurel crown they had entwined, an indefinite 
timidity beset her: the enthusiastic populace prostrated them- 
selves before him, and Corinne involuntarily bent her knee in 
tendering him the garland. Oswald was so overwhelmed at the 
sight, that he could no longer support this scene, nor the public 
homage of his beloved ; but drew her away with him. She wept, 
and thanked the good inhabitants of Ancona, who followed them 
with blessings, as Oswald, hiding himself in his carriage, mur- 
mured : “ Corinne at my feet ! Corinne, in whose path I ought to 
kneel! Have I * deserved this? Do you suspect me of such 
unworthy pride?” — “No, no,” she said; “but I was suddenly 
seized with the respect a woman always feels for him she loves. 
To us, indeed, is external deference most directed ; but in truth, 
in nature, it is the woman who reveres the being capable of 
•defending her.” 

“ Yes, I will be thy defender, to the last hour of my life !” ha 
answered. “ Heaven be my witness, such a genius shall not i a 


276 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

vain seek a refuge in the harbor of my love!” — “Alas!” she 
sighed, “ that love is all I need; and what promise can secure it 
to me ? No matter. I feel that you love me now better than 
ever: let us not trouble this return of affection.”-— “ Return !” 
interrupted Oswald. — “I cannot retract the expression ; but let 
us not seek to explain it and she made a gentle sign for Nevil 
to be silent. 


CHAPTER VI. 

For two day3 they proceeded on the shore of the Adriatic; 
but this sea, on the Romagnan side, has not the effect of the 
ocean, nor even of the Mediterranean. The high road winds 
close to its waves, and grass grows on its banks : it is not thus 
that we would represent the mighty realm of tempests. At 
Rimini and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of history : their 
latest remembrancer is the Rubicon, which Cæsar passed to be- 
come the lord of Rome. Not far from hence is the republic of 
St. Marino, the last weak vestige of liberty, besides the spot on 
which was resolved the destruction of the world’s chief republic. 
By degrees, you now advance towards a country very opposite in 
aspect to the Papal State. Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of 
Ferrara and Rovigo, are remarkable for beauty and cultivation — 
how unlike the poetic barrenness and decay that announce an ap- 
proach to Rome, and tell of the terrible events that have occurred 
there ! 

You then quit what Sabran calls “ black pines, the summer’s 
mourning, but the winter’s bravery,” and the conical cypresses 
that remind one of obelisks, mountains, and the sea. Nature, 
like the traveller, now parts from the southern rays. A t first, 
the oranges are found no longer in the open air — they are suc- 
ceeded by olives, whose pale and tender foliage might suit the 
bowers of the Elysian fields. Furthe- op, even the olive disap. 
pears. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 277^ 

On entering Bologna’s smiling plain, the vines garland the 
elms together, and the whole laud is decked as for a festival. 
Corinne was sensible of the contrast between her present state of 
mind and the resplendent scene she now beheld. — u Ah, Oswald !” 
she sighed, “ought nature to spread such images of happiness 
before two friends perhaps about to lose each other?” — “No, 
Corinne — never! each day I feel less able to resign thee: that 
untiring gentleness unites the charm of habit with the love I bear 
thee. One lives as contentedly with you as if you were not the 
finest genius in the world, or, rather, because you are so ; for real 
superiority confers a perfect goodness, that makes one’s peace with 
one’s self and all the world. What angry thoughts can live in 
such a presence ?” They arrived at Ferrara, one of the saddest 
towns in Italy, vast and deserted. The few inhabitants found 
there, at distant intervals, loiter on slowly, as if secure of time for 
all they have to do. It is hard to conceive this the scene of that 
gay court sung both by Tasso and Ariosto ; yet still are shown 
their manuscripts, with that also of the Pastor Fido. Ariosto 
knew how to live at ease here, amid courtiers ; but the house is 
yet to be seen wherein they dared confine Tasso as a maniac. 
It is sad to read the various letters which he wrote, asking the 
death it was so long ere he obtained. Tasso was so peculiarly 
organised, that his talent became its owner’s formidable foe. His 
genius dissected his own heart. He could not so have read the 
secrets of the soul if he had felt less sorrow. The man who has 
not suffered, Isays a prophet, what does he know ? In some re- 
spects, Corinne resembled him. She was more cheerful and more 
versatile, but her imagination required extreme government : far 
from assuaging any grief, it lent each pang fresh might. Nevil 
deceived himself if he believed her brilliant faculties cK'ld give 
her means of happiness apart from her affections. Wkca genius 
is united with true feeling, our talents multiply our woes. We 
analyze, we make discoveries, and, the heart’s urn of ^ars #<5ing 
exhaustless, the more we think the more we feel it flow, 

24 


27S 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY 


CHAPTER VII. 

They embarked for Venice on the Bren ta. At each side they 
beheld its palaces, grand but dilapidated, like all Italian magnifi 
cence. They are too wildly ornamented to remind us of the an- 
tique : Venetian architecture betrays a commerce with the East : 
there is a blendure of the Gothic and Moresco that takes the eye, 
though it offends the taste. The poplar, regular almost as archi- 
tecture itself, borders the canals. The sky’s bright blue sets off 
the splendid verdure of the country, which owes its green to the 
abundant waters. Nature seems to wear these two colors in mere 
coquetry; and the vague beauty of the South is found no more. 
Venice astonishes more than it pleases at first sight: it looks a 
city under water : and one can scarce admire the ambition which 
disputed this space with the sea. The amphitheatre of Naples is 
built as if to welcome it; but on the flats of Venice, steeples 
appear, like masts, immovable in the midst of waves. In enter- 
ing the city, one takes leave of vegetation ; one sees not even a 
fly there : all animals are banished ; man alone remains to battle 
with the waves. In a city whose streets are all canals, the silence 
is profound — the dash of oars its only interruption. You cannot 
fancy yourself in the country, for you see no trees; nor in a town, 
for you hear no bustle; or even on board ship, for you make no 

way; but in a place which storms would convert into a prison 

for there are times when you cannot leave the city, nor even your 
own house. # 

Many men in Venice never went from one quarter to another 
— never beheld St. Mark’s — a horse or a tree were actual miracles 
to them. The black gondolas glide along like biers or cradles, 
the last and the first beds of human kind. At night, their dark 
color renders them invisible, and they are only traced by the re- 
flection of the lights they carry : — one might call them phantoms, 
guided by faint stars. In this abode all is mysterious — the go- 
vernment, the habits, love itself. Doubtless the heart and reason 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 279 

find much food when they can penetrate this secrecy, but stran- 
gers always feel the first impression singularly sad. 

Corinne, who was a believer in presentiments, and now made 
presages of everything, said to Nevil : “ Is not the melancholy 
that I feel on entering this place a proof that some great misfor- 
tune will befall me here? As she said this, she heard three 
reports of cannon, from one of the Isles of the Lagune — sh® 
started, and inquired the cause of a gondolier — “It is a woman 
taking the veil,” he said, “ at one of those convents in the midst 
of the sea. The custom here is, that the moment such vow is 
uttered, the female throws the flowers she wore during the cere- 
mony behind her, as a sign of her resigning the world, and the 
firing you have just heard announces this event.” Corinne shud- 
dered. Oswald felt her hand grow cold in his, and saw a death- 
like pallor overspread her face. — “ My life !” he cried, “ why give 
this importance to so simple a chance ?” — “ It is not simple,” she 
replied. “ I, too, have thrown the flowers of youth behind me.” — 
“ How ! when I love thee more than ever ? when my whole soul 
is thine?” — “The thunders of war,” she continued, “elsewhere 
devoted to victory or death, here celebrate the obscure sacrifice of 
a maiden — an innocent employment for the arms that shake the 
world with terror : a solemn message from a resigned woman to 
those of her sisters who still contend with fate.” 


CHAPTER Y I II. 

Tne power of the Venetian government, during its latter years, 
has almost entirely consisted in the empire of habit and associa- 
tion of ideas. It once was formidably daring, — it has become 
lenient and timorous : hate of its past potency is easily revived, 
and easily subdued, by the thoughts that its might is over. Tho 
aristocracy woo the favour of the people, and yet by a kind of des- 
potism, since they rather amuse than enlighten them ; an agree- 
able state enough, while the common herd are afforded no plea- 


ZSd 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


sures that can brutify their minds, while the government watches 
over its subjects like a sultan over his harem, forbidding them to 
meddle with politics, or presume to form any judgment of exist- 
ing authorities, but allowing them sufficient diversion, and not a 
little glory. The spoils of Constantinople enrich the churches; 
the standards of Cyprus and Candia float over the Piazza ; the 
Corinthian horses delight the eye; and the winged lion of St. 
Mark’s appears the type of fame. The situation of the city 
rendering agriculture and the chase impossible, nothing is left for 
the Venetians but dissipation. Their dialect is soft and light as a 
zephyr. One can hardly conceive how the people who resisted 
the league of Cambray should speak so flexible a tongue : it is 
charming while expressive of graceful pleasantry, but suits not 
graver themes; verses on death, for instance, breathed in these 
delicate and almost infantine accents, sound more like the descrip- 
tions of poetic fable. The Venetians are the most intelligent men 
in Italy; they think more deeply, though with less ardent fancies 
than their southern countrymen; yet, for the most part, the 
women, though very agreeable, have acquired a sentimentality of 
language, which, without restraining their morals, merely lends 
their gallantry an air of affectation. There is more vanity, as 
there is more society, here, than in the rest of Italy. Where ap- 
plause is quick and frequent, conceit calculates all debts instanta- 
neously ; knows what success is owed, and claims its due, without 
giving a minute’s credit. Its bills must be paid at sight. Still, 
much originality may be found in Venice. Ladies of the highest 
rank receive visits in the cafés, and this strange confusion prevents 
their salons becoming the arenas of serious self-love. There yet 
remain here some ancient usages that evince a respect for their 
forefathers, and a certain youth of heart which tires not of the 
past, nor shrinks from melting recollections. The sight of the 
city itself is always sufficient to awaken a host of memories. The 
Piazza is crowded by blue tents, beneath which rest Turks, Greeks 
and Armenians, who sometimes also loll carelessly in open boats, 
with stands of flowers at their feet. St. Mark’s, too, looks rather 
like a mosque than a Christian temple ; and its vicinity gives a 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 28^ 

true idea of the oriental indolence with which life is spent here, 
in drinking sherbet, and smoking perfumed pipes. 

Men and women of quality never leave their houses, except in 
black mantles) while the gondolas are often winged along by 
rowers clad in white, with rose-colored sashes, as if holiday array 
were abandoned to the vulgar, while the nobility kept up a vow 
of perpetual mourning. In most Europeon towns, authors are 
obliged carefully to avoid lepicting the daily routine ) for our cus- 
toms, even in luxury, arc rarely poetic; but in Venice nothing 
appears coarse; the canals, the boats, make pictures of the com- 
monest events in life. 

On the quay of the galleys you constantly encounter puppet 
shows, mountebanks, and story-tellers; the last are worthy of re- 
mark. It is usually some episode from Tasso or Ariosto which 
they relate in prose, to the great admiration of their hearers, who 
sit round the speaker half clad, and motionless with curiosity ; 
from time to time they purchase glasses of water, as wine is 
bought elsewhere, and this refreshment is all they take for hours, 
so strongly are their minds interested. The narrator uses the 
most animating gestures; his voice is raised ; he irritates him- 
self; he grows pathetic; and yet one sees, all the while, that at 
heart he is perfectly unmoved. One might say to him, as did 
Sappho to the Circean nymph, who, in perfect sobriety, was as- 
suming fury: “ Bacchante — who art not drunk — what wouldst 
thou with me ?” Yet the lively pantomime of the south does not 
appear quite artificial : it is a singular habit handed down from 
the Romans, and springing from quickness of disposition. A 
people so enslaved by pleasure may soon be alarmed by the 
dream of power in which the Venetian government is veiled. 
Never are soldiers seen there. If even a drummer appears in 
their comedies they are all astonishment; yet a state inquisitor 
needs but to show himself to restore order among thirty thousand 
people, assembled for a public fête. It were well if this influence 
was derived from a respect for the laws; but it is fortified by 
terror of the secret means which may still be used to preserve the 
peace. The prisons are in the very palace of the Doge, above and 
24 * 


282 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


below his apartments. The Lion’s Mouth, into which all denum 
dations are thrown, is also here ; the hall of trial is hung with 
black, and makes judgment appear anticipating condemnation. 
The Bridge of Sighs leads from the palace to the state prison. In 
passing the canal, how oft were heard the cries of “ Justice! 
Mercy !” in voices that could be no longer recognized. When a 
state criminal was sentenced, a bark removed him in the night, 
Dy a little gate that opens on the water : he was taken some dis- 
tance from the city, to a part of the Lagune where fishing is pro- 
hibited, and there drowned: thus secrecy is perpetuated, even 
after death, not leaving the unhappy wretch a hope that his re- 
mains may inform those who loved him that he suffered, and is no 
more. When Lord Nevil and Corinne visited Venice, these exe- 
cutions had not taken place for nearly a century : but sufficient 
mystery still existed : and, though Oswald was the last man to 
interfere with the politics of foreign lands, he felt oppressed by 
this arbitrary power, from which there was no appeal, that seemed 
to hang over every head in Venice. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“You must not,” said Corinne, “give way merely to the 
gloomy impressions which these silent proceedings have created ; 
you ought also to observe the great qualities of this senate, which 
makes Venice a republic for nobles, and formerly inspired that 
aristocratic energy, the result of freedom, even though concen- 
trated in the few. You will find them severe on one another, at 
least establishing, in their own breasts, the rights and virtues 
that should belong to all. You will see them as paternal towards 
their subjects as they can be, while merely considering that class 
of men with reference to physical prosperity. You will detect a 
great pride in the country which is their property, and an art 
of endearing it even to the people, whom they allow so few actual 
possessions there.” 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


283 


Corinne and Oswald visited the hall where the great council 
was then assembled. It is hung with portraits of the doges; on 
the space which would have been occupied by that of Faliero, 
who was beheaded as a traitor, is painted a black curtain, whereon 
is written the date and manner of his death. The regal magni- 
ficence of the other pictures adds to the effect of this ghastly pall. 
There is also a representation of the Last Judgment, another of 
the powerful emperor, Frederic Barbarossa, humbling himself to 
the Venetian senate. It was a fine idea, thus to unite all that 
can exalt pride upon earth, and bend it before Heaven. 

They proceeded to the arsenal : before its gates are two Grecian 
lions, brought from Athens, to become the guardians of Venetian 
power. Motionless guardians, that defend but what they respect. 
This repository is full of marine trophies. The famous ceremony 
of the doge's marriage with the Adriatic, in fact, all the institu- 
tions, here attest their gratitude to the sea : in this respect they 
resemble the English, and Nevil strongly felt the similarity. 
Corinne now led him to the tower called the Steeple of St. Mark's, 
though some paces from the church. Thence is seen the whole 
city of the waves, and the huge embankment which defends it 
from inundation. The coasts of Istria and Dalmatia are in the 
distance. “ Behind the clouds, on this side, lies Greece," said 
Corinne : “is not that thought enough to stir the heart? There, 
still, are men of lively, ardent characters, victims to fate; yet 
destined, perhaps, some day, to resuscitate the ashes of their sires. 
It is always something for a land to have been great ; its natives 
blush at least beneath degradation ; while, in a country never con- 
secrated to fame, the inhabitants do not even suspect that there 
can be a nobler doom than the obscure servility bequeathed to 
them by their fathers. Dalmatia, which was of yore occupied 
by so warlike a race, still preserves something of the savage. Its 
natives are so little aware of the changes wrought by fifteen 
centuries, that they still deem the Homans ‘ all-powerful ;' yet 
they betray more modern knowledge, by calling the English * the 
heroes of the sea/ because you have so often landed in their 
norts ; but they know nothing about the rest of the world. Ï 


284 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


love all realms where, in the manners, customs, language, some* 
thiDg original is left. Civilized life is so monotonous; you know 
its secrets in so short a time; I have already lived long enough 
for that.” — “ Living with you,” said Nevil, “can we ever behold 
the end of new thoughts and sensations ?” — “ God grant that such 
may prove exhaustless !” she replied, continuing : “ Let us give 
one moment more to Dalmatia : when we descend from this height 
we shall still see the uncertain lines which mark that land, as indis- 
tinctly as a tender recollection in the memory of man. There 
are improvisatores among the Dalmatians as among the savages ; 
they were found, too, with the Grecians, and almost always exist 
where there is much imagination, and little vanity. Natural 
talent turns rather to epigram, in countries where a fear of ridi- 
cule makes every man anxious to be the first who secures that 
weapon ; but people thrown much with Nature feel a reverence 
for her that greatly nurtures fancy. * Caverns are sacred/ say 
the Dalmatians; doubtless, thus expressing an indefinite terror of 
the old earth’s secrets. Their poetry, Southerns though they be, 
resembles Ossian’s; but there are only two ways of feeling the 
charms of nature. Men either animate and deify them, as did 
the ancients, beneath a thousand brilliant shapes, or, like the 
Scottish bards, yield to the melancholy fear inspired by the un- 
known. Since I met you, Oswald, this last manner has best 
pleased me. Formerly, I had vivacious hope enough to prefer a 
fearless enjoyment of smiling imagery.” — “It is I, theD,” said 
Nevil, “ who have withered the fair ideal, to which I owed the 
richest pleasures of my life.” — “No, you are not in fault, but ray 
own passion. Talent requires internal freedom, such as true love 
destroys.” — “ Ah ! if you mean that your genius may lose its 
voice, and your heart but speak for me ” He could not pro- 

ceed ; the words promised more to his mind than he dared utter. 
Corinne guessed this, and would not answer, lest she should dis- 
sipate their present hopes. She felt herself beloved, and, used 
to live where men lose all for love, she was easily persuaded that 
Nevil could not leave her. At once ardent and indolent, she 
deemed a danger past which was no longer mentioned. She lived 
as many others do, who have been long menaced by the same 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 285 

misfortune, and think it will never happen, merely because it 
has not done so yet. 

The air of Venice, and the life led there, is singularly calcu- 
lated for lulling the mind into security : the vei*y boats, peacefully 
rocking to and fro, induce a languid reverie; now and then a gon- 
dolier on the ldialto sings a stanza from Tasso; one of his fellows 
answers him, by the next verse, from the extremity of the canal. 
The very antique music they employ is like church psalmody, 
and montonous enough when near; but, on the evening breeze, 
it floats over the waters like the last beams of the sun ; and, aided 
by the sentiment it expresses, in such a scene, it cannot be heard 
without a gentle pensiveness. Oswald and Corinne remained on 
the canals, side by side, for hours ; often without a word ; holding 
each other’s hands, and yielding to the formless dreams inspired 
by love and nature. 


BOOK XVI. 

PARTING AND ABSENCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

As soon as Corinne’s arrival was known in Venice, it excited 
the greatest curiosity. When she went to a café in the piazza of 
St. Mr t, its galleries were crowded, for a moment’s glimpse at 
her ; a “the best society sought her with eager haste. She had 
once h /e d to produce this effect wherever she appeared, and 
naturally confessed that admiration had many charms for her. 
Genius inspires this thirst for fame : there is no blessing undesired 
by those to whom Heaven gave the means of winning it. Yet in 
her present situation she dreaded everything in opposition with 
the domestic habits so dear to Nevil. Corinne was blind to her 
own welfare, in attaching herself to a man likely rather to repress 
than to excite her talents ; but it is easy to conceive why a woman, 


286 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


occupied by literature and the arts, should love the tastes that 
differed from her own. One is so often weary of one’s self, that 
a resemblance of that self would never tempt affection, which re- 
quires a harmony of sentiment, but a contrast of character; many 
sympathies, but not unvaried congeniality. Nevil was supremely 
blessed with this double charm. His gentle ease and gracious 
manner could never sate, because his liability to clouds and storms 
kept up a constant interest. Although the depth and extent of 
his acquirements fitted him for any life, his political opinions and 
military bias inclined him rather to a career of arms than one of 
letters — the thought that action might be more poetical than even 
verse itself. He was superior to the success of his own mind, 
and spoke of it with much indifference. Corinne strove to please 
him by imitating this carelessness of literary glory ; in order to 
grow more like the retiring females from whom English womanhood 
offers the best model. Yet the homage she received at Venice 
gave Oswald none but agreeable sensations. There was so much 
cordial good-breeding in the reception she met — the Venetians 
expressed the pleasure her conversation afforded them with such 
vivacity, that Oswald felt proud of being dear to one so univer- 
sally admired. He was no longer jealous of her celebrity, certain 
that she prized him far above it ; and his own love increased by 
every tribute she elicited. He forgot England, and revelled in 
the Italian heedlessness of days to come. Corinne perceived this 
change ; and her imprudent heart welcomed it, as if to last for- 
ever. 

Italian is the only tongue whose dialects are almost languages 
of themselves. In that of each state books might be written 
distinct from the standard Italian; though only the Neapolitan, 
Sicilian, and Veuetian dialects have yet the honor of being ac- 
knowledged; and that of Venice as the most original, most grace- 
ful of all. Corinne pronounced it charmingly ; and the manner 
in which she sung some lively barcaroles proved that she could 
act comedy as well as tragedy. She was pressed to take a part 
in an opera which some of her new friends intended playing the 
next week. Since she had loved Oswald, she concealed this talent 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


287 


from him, not feeling sufficient peace of mind for its exercise, or, 
at other times, fearing that any outbreak of high spirits might he 
followed by misfortune ; but now, with unwonted confidence, she 
consented, as he, too, joined in the request ; and it was agreed 
that she should perform in a piece, like most of Gozzi’s, composed 
of the most diverting fairy extravagances. (32) Truffaldin and 
Pantaloon, in these burlesques, often jostle the greatest monarchy 
of the earth. The marvellous furnishes them with jests, which, 
from their very order, cannot approach to low vulgarity. The 
Child of the Air, or Semiramis in her Youth, is a coquette, en- 
dowed by the celestials and infernals to subjugate the world; bred 
in a desert, like a savage, cunning as a sorceress, and imperious 
as a queen, she unites natural wildness with premeditated grace, 
and a warrior’s courage with the frivolity of a woman. The 
character demands a fund of fanciful drollery, which but the 
inspiration of the moment can bring to light. 


CHAPTER IT. 

Fate sometimes has its own strange, cruel sport, repulsing our 
presuming familiarity. Oft, when we yield to hope, calculate on 
success, and trifle with our destiny, the sable thread is blending 
with its tissue, and the weird sisters dash down the airy fabrics 
we have reared. 

It was now November; yet Corinne arose enchanted with he/' 
prospects. For the first act she chose a very picturesque costume : 
her hair, though dishevelled, was arranged with an evident design 
of pleasing; her light, fantastic garb gave her noble form a most 
mischievously attractive air. She reached the palace where she 
was to play- Every one but Oswald had arrived. She deferred 
the performance as long as possible, and began to be uneasy at 
his absence ; when she came on the stage, however, she perceived 
him, though he sat in a remote part of the hall, and the pain of 
having waited redoubled her joy. She was inspired by gayetj 


288 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


as she had been at the Capitol by enthusiasm. This drama blends 
song with speech, and even gives opportunities for extempore 
dialogue, of which Corinne availed herself to render the scene 
more animated. She sung the buffa airs with peculiar elegance. 
Her gestures were at once comic and dignified. She extorted 
laughter, without ceasing to be imposing. Her talents, .ike her 
part, queened it over actors and spectators, pleasantly bantering 
both parties. Ah ! who would not have wept over such a sight, 
could they have known that this bright armor but drew down the 
lightning, that this triumphant mirth would soon give place to 
bitter desolation? The applause was so continual, so judicious, 
that the rapture of the audience infected Corinne with that kind 
of delirium which pours a lethe over the past, and bids the future 
seem unclouded. Oswald had seen her represent the deepest woe, 
at a tim-e when he still hoped to make her happy ; he now beheld 
her breathing stainless joy, just as he had received tidings that 
might prove fatal to them both. Oft did he wish to take her 
from this scene of daring happiness, yet felt a sad pleasure in 
once more beholding that lovely countenance bedecked in smiles. 
At the conclusion, she appeared arrayed as an Amazonian queen, 
commanding men, almost the elements, by that reliance on her 
charms which beauty may preserve, unless she loves ; then, then, 
no gift of nature or of fortune can reassure her spirit ; but thi 3 
crowned flirt, this fairy queen, miraculously blending rage with 
wit, carelessness with ambition, and conceit with despotism, seemed 
to rule over fate as over hearts; and when she ascended her throne 
she exacted the submission of her subjects with a smile, arch as 
it was arrogant. This was, perhaps, the moment of her life, 
from which both grief and fear seemed furthest banished ; when 
suddenly she saw her lover bow his face on his hands to hide his 
tears. She trembled, and the curtain had not quite fallen, when, 
leaving her already hated throne, she rushed into the next apart- 
ment. Thither he followed her ; and when she marked his pale- 
ness, she was seized with such alarm that she was forced to lean 
against the wall for support. “ Oswald,” she said, “ my God 1 
what has happened?” — “ I must start for England to-night,” ho 


289 


CORINNE; OR ITALY. 

said, forgetting that he ought not thus to have exposeu her feel- 
ings. — “No, no!” she cried, clinging to him distractedly; “you 
cannot plunge me into such despair. How have I merited it? 
or — or — you mean that you will take me with you?” “Let us 
leave this cruel crowd,” he said : “ come with me, Corinne.” 
She followed him, not understanding aught addressed to her, an- 
swering at random ; her gait and look so changed, that every one 
believed her struck with sudden illness. 


CHAPTER III. 

When they were in the gondola, she raved: “What you have 
made me feel is worse than death : be generous : throw me into 
these waves, that I may lose the sense which maddens me. Os- 
wald, be brave : I have seen you do things that required more 
courage.” — “ Hold, hold !” he cried, “ if you would not drive me 
to suicide. Hear me, when we have reached your house, and 
then pronounce our fate. In the name of Heaven be calm !” 
There was such misery in his accents that she was silent; but 
trembled so violently, that she could hardly walk up the stairs 
to her apartment. There she tore off her ornaments in dismay; 
and, as Lord Nevil saw her in this state, a few moments since so 
brilliant, he sank upon a seat in tears. — “Am I a barbarian?” 
he cried. “ Corinne ! Just Heaven ! Corinne ! do you not think me 
so?” — “No,” she said, “no, I cannot. — Have you not still that 
look which every day gives me fresh comfort ? Oswald, your presence 
is a ray from heaven — can I then fear you? — not dare to read 
your eyes? but fall before you as before my murderer? Oh, Os- 
wald ! Oswald !” and she threw herself at his feet in supplication. 
“What do I see,” he exclaimed, raising her vehemently, “would 
you dishonor me? Well, be it so. My regiment embarks in a 
month. I will remain, if you betray this all-commanding grief, 
but I shall not survive my shame.” — “I ask you not to stay,” 
she said ; “ but what harm can I do by following you !” — “ We 
25 


290 


CORINE; OR, ITALY. 

go to the West Indies, and no officer is allowed to take his wife.” 
— “ Well, well, at least let me go to England with you.” — “ My 
letters also tell me,” answered he, “ that reports concerning us are 
already in the papers there; tha^your identity is suspected; and 
your family, excited by Lady Edgarmond, refuses to meet or own 
you. Give me but time to reconcile them, to enforce your rights 
with your step-mother; for if I take you thither, and leave you, 
ere your name be cleared, you will endure all the severe opinions 
which I shall not be by to answer.” — “ Then you refuse me every- 
thing !” she said, and sank insensible to the earth, her forehead 
receiving a wound in the fall. Oswald shrieked at the sight. 
Thérésina entered in extreme alarm, and restored her mistress to 
animation; but when Corinne perceivéd, in an opposite mirror, 
her own pale and disfigured face — “ Oswald,” she sighed, “il 
was not thus I looked the day you met me first. J wore the 
crown of hope and fame, now blood and dust are on my brow; 
yet it is not for you to despise the state to which you have reduced 
me. Others may — but you cannot— you ought to pity me for 
loving thus — you must !” — “ Stay,” he cried, “ that is too much ;” 
and signing for Thérésina to retire, he took Corinne in his arms, 
saying : “ Do what thou wilt with me. I must submit to the 
decrees of Heaven. I cannot abandon thee in this distress, nor 
lead thee to England, before I have secured thee against the insults 
of that haughty woman. I will stay with thee. I cannot depart.” 
These words recalled Corinne to herself, yet overwhelmed her 
with despair. She felt the necessity that weighed upon her, and 
with her head reclined, remained long silent. — “Dearest!” said 
Oswald, “let me heaf thy voice. I have no other support — no 
other guide now.” — “No,” replied Corinne, “you must leave 
me,” and a flood of tears evinced her comparative resignation — 
“ My love,” said Nevil, “ I call to witness this portrait of my 

father, and you best know whether his name is sacred to me 

I swear to it that my life is in thy power, if needful to thy hap- 
piness. At my return from the islands I will see if I cannot re- 
store thee to thy due rank in thy father’s country. If I fail, I 
will return to Italy, and live or die at thy feet.” — But the dan 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


291 


gers you are about to .brave,” she rejoined. — “Fear not, I shall 
escape; or if I perish, unknown as I am, my memory will sur- 
vive in thy heart ; and when thou hearest my name, thou mayest 
say, perhaps with tearful eyes, * I knew him once — he loved me !’ ” 
— “ Ah, leave me !” she cried : “you are deceived by my appa- 
rent calm ; to-morrow, when the sun rises, and I tell myself, ‘ I 
shall see him no more/ the thought may kill me; happy if it 
does.” — “Why, Corinne, do you fear? is my solemn promise 
nothing ? Can your heart doubt it ?” — “ No, I respect — too much 
not to believe you : it would cost me more to abjure mine admira- 
tion than my love. I look on you as an angelic being — the purest, 
noblest, that ever shone on earth. It is not alone your grace that 
captivates me, but the idea that so many virtues never before 
united in one object, and that your heavenly look was only given 
to express them all. Far be it from me, then, to doubt your 
word^ I should fly from the human face forever if Lord Nevil 
could deceive; but absence has so many perils, and that dreaded 
word adieu ” — “ Have I not said, never — save from my death- 

bed ?” demanded Oswald, with such emotion that Corinne, terri- 
fied for his health, strove to restrain her feelings, and became 
more pitiable than before. They then began to concert means of 
writing, and to speak on the certainty of rejoining each other. 
A year was the term fixed. Oswald securely believed that the 
expedition would not be longer away. Some time was left them 
g till, and Corinne trusted to regain her strength ; but wnen Os- 
wald told her that the gondola would come for him at three in the 
morning, and she saw, by her dial, that the hour was not far dis- 
tant, she shivered as if she were approaching the stake: her 
lover had every instant less resolution ; and, Corinne, who had 
never seen his mastery over himself thus unmanned, was heart- 
broken at the sight of his great anguish. She consoled him, 
though she must have been a thousand times the most unhappy of 
the two. — “Listen !” she said : “when you are in London, fickle 
gallants will tell you that love-promises bind not your honor; that 
every Englishman has liked some Italian on his travels, and for. 
gotten her on his return ; that a few pleasant months ought to 


292 CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

involve neither the giver nor the receiver; that at your age the 
color of your whole life cannot depend upon the temporary fasci- 
nations of a foreigner. Now this will seem right in the way of 
the world ; but will you, who know the heart of which you made 
yourself the lord, find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting 
a mortal wound ? Will barbarous jests from men of the day 
prevent your hand’s trembling as it drives the poniard through 
this breast ?” — “Hush,” said Oswald : “you know it is not your 
grief alone restrains me : but where could I find such bliss as I 
have owed to you ? Who, in the universe, can understand me as 
you do ? Corinne, you are the only woman who can feel or in- 
spire true love, that harmonious intelligence of hearts and souls, 
which I shall never enjoy except with you. You know I am not 
fickle : I look on all things seriously ; is it then against you only 
that I should belie my nature ?” — “ No,” answered Corinne ; “ you 
would not treat my fond sincerity with scorn ; it is not you, Os- 
wald, who could remain insensible to my despair; but to you my 
step-mother will say all that can sully my past life. Spare me the 
task of telling you beforehand her pitiless remarks. Far from 
what talents I may boast disarming her, they are my greatest 
errors in her eyes. She cannot feel their charm, she only sees 
their danger : whatever is unlike the destiny she herself chose 
seems useless, if not culpable. The poetry of the heart to her 
appears but an impertinence, which usurps the right of depre- 
«iating common sense. It is in the name of virtues I respect as 
much as you do that she will condemn my character and fate. 
Oswald, she will call me unworthy of you.” “ And how should 
I hear that?” interrupted he : “ what virtues dare she rate above 
your generosity, your frankness? No, heavenly creature! be 
common minds judged by common rules; but shame befall the 
being you have loved who does not more revere than even adore 
you. Peerless in love and truth, Corinne! my firmness fails; 
if you sustain me not, I can never fly. It is from you I must 
receive the power to pain you.” — “ Well,” said Corinne, “there 
are some seconds yet ere I must recommend myself to God, and 
beg he will enable me to hear the hour of your departure strike. 


293 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Oh, Oswald, we love each other with deep tenderness. I have 
intrusted you with all my secrets; the facts were nothing — but 
the most private feelings of my heart, you know them all. I 
have not a thought that is not wedded to thee : if I write aught 
in which my soul expands, thou art mine inspiration. I address 
myself to thee, as I shall my latest sigh. What, then, is my 
asylum if thou leavest me ? The arts will retrace thine image, 
music thy voice. Genius, which formerly entranced my spirit, 
is nothing now but love, and unshared with thee must perish. 
Oh, God !” she added, raising her eyes to heaven, “ deign but to 
hear me ! Thou art not merciless to our noblest sorrows ; take 
back my life when he has ceased to love : it will be then but suffer- 
ing. He carries with him all my highest, softest feelings : if he 
permits the fire shrined in his breast to be extinguished, wherever 
I may be, my life, too, will be quenched. Great God ! thou didst 
not frame me to outlive my better self, and what should I become 
in ceasing to esteem him ? He ought to love me ever — I feel he 
ought — my affection should command his ! Oh ! heavenly Father ! 
death or his love !” 

As she concluded this prayer she turned to Oswald, and beheld ' 
him prostrated before her in strong convulsions : he repelled her 
cares, as if his reason were entirely lost. Corinne gently pressed 
his hand, repeating to him all he had said to her, assuring him 
that she relied on his return. Her words somewhat composed 
him; yet the nearer the hour of separation drew, the more im- 
possible it seemed to part. “ Why,” he said, “ should we not 
go to the altar and at once take our eternal oaths ?” All the 
firmness, all the pride of Corinne, revived at these words. Os- 
wald had told her that a woman’s grief once before subdued him, 
but his love had chilled with every sacrifice he made. After a 
moment’s silence, she replied : “ No, you must see your country 
and your friends before you adopt this resolution. I owe it now, 
my Lord, to the pangs of parting, and I will not accept it.” He 
took her hand. “At least,” he said, “I swear again my faith is 
bound to this ring; while you preserve it, never shall another 
attain a right over my actions ; if you at last reject me, and send 
25 * 


294 


CORINNE; OR , ITALY. 


it back ” — “ Cease,” she interposed, “cease to talk of a fefel 

you never felt; I cannot be the first to break our sacred tie,. and 
almost blush to assure you of what you but too well know al- 
ready. Meanwhile, the time advanced. Corinne turned pale 
at every sound. Nevil remained in speechless grief beside her; 
at last a light gleamed through the window, and the black, hearse- 
like gondola stopped before the door. Corinne uttered a scream 
of fright, and fell into Oswald’s arms, crying : “They are here — 
adieu — leave me — all is over!” — “Oh God, oh my father !” he 
exclaimed; “what do ye exact of me?” He embraced and wept 
over his beloved, who continued: “Go ! it must be done — go !” 
— “Let me call Thérésina,” he said; “I cannot leave you thus 
alone.” — “Alone !” she repeated : “ shall I not be alone till you 
return ?” — “ I cannot quit this room ; it is impossible,” he articu- 
lated, with desperation. — “Well,” said Corinne, “then it is I 
must give the signal. I will open the door; but when I have 
done so, spare me a few short instants.” — “Yes, yes,” he mur- 
mured, “ let us be stifl together, though these cruel combats are 
even worse than absence.” They now heard the boatmen calling 
up Lord Nevil’s servants; one of whom soon tapped at the door, 
informing him that all was ready. — “All is ready,” echoed Co- 
rinne, and knelt beside -his father’s portrait. Doubtless, her 
former life then passed in review before her; she exaggerated 
every fault, and feared herself unworthy of Divine compassion, 
though far too wretched to exist without it. When she arose, 
she held forth her hand to Nevil, saying: “Now I can bid you 
farewell — a moment more, and, perhaps, I could not. May God 
protect your steps and mine — for I must need his care !” Os- 
wald flung himself once more into her arms, trembling and pale 
like one prepared for torture, and left the room, where, perhaps, 
for the last time, he had loved, and felt himself beloved, as few 
have ever been, or ever can be. 

When he disappeared, a horrid palpitation attacked Corinne ; 
she could not breathe; everything she beheld looked unreal; 
objects seemed vanishing from her sight; the chamber tottering 
as from a shock of earthquake. For a quarter of an hour she 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


295 


heard the servants completing the preparations for this journey. 
He was still near ; she might yet again behold him, speak to him 
once more ; but she would not trust herself. Oswald lay almost 
senseless in the gondola. At last it rowed away : and at that 
moment, Corinne fled forth to recall him ; but Thérésina stopped 
her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high wind arose; the 
house was now, indeed, shaken like a ship at sea, and Oswald 
had to cross the Lagune in such weather ! Corinne descended, 
purposing to follow him, at least till he should land in safety ; 
but it was so dark that not a single gondola was plying : she 
walked, in dreadful agitation, the narrow pavement that divides 
the houses from the water. The storm increased; she called 
upon the boatmen, who mistook her cries for those of some poor 
creature drowning — yet no one dared approach, the waves of 
the grand canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne remaiued 
till daybreak in this state; meanwhile the tempest ceased. 
One of the gondoliers brought word from Oswald that he bad 
crossed securely. That moment was almost a happy one ; and it 
was some hours ere the unfortunate creature again felt the full 
weight of absence, or calculated the long days which but anxiety 
and grief might henceforth occupy. 


CHAPTER IY. 

During the first part of his journey, Oswald was frequently 
on the point of returning; but the motives for perseverance van- 
quished this desire. We make a solemn step towards the limits 
of Love’s empire, after we have once disobeyed him — the dream 
of his resistlessness is over. On approaching England, all Os- 
wald’s homefelt recollections returned. The year he had passed 
abroad had no connection with any other era of his life. A glo- 
rious apparition had charmed his fancy, but could not change the 
tastes, the opinions, of which his existence had been, till then, 
composed. He regained himself ; and though regret prevented 
his yet feeling any delight, his thoughts began to steady from thi 


296 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Italian intoxication which had unsettled them. No sooner had 
he landed, than his mind was struck with the ease, the order, the 
wealth, and industry he looked on ; the habits and inclinations to 
which he was born waked with more force than ever. 

In a land where men have so much dignity, and women so 
much virtue, where domestic peace is the basis of public welfare, 
Oswald could but remember Italy to pity her. He saw the stamp 
of human reason upon all things; he had lately found, in social 
life as in state institutions, nothing but confusion, weakness, and 
ignorance. Painting and poetry gave place in his heart to free- 
dom and to morals; and, much as he loved Corinne, he gently 
blamed her for wearying of a race so wise, so noble. Had he left 
her imaginative land for one of bare frivolity, he would have 
pined for it still; but now he exchanged the vague yearnings 
after romantic rapture, for pride in the truest blessings — security 
and independence. He returned to a career that suits man’s 
mind — action that has an aim ! Reverie may be the heritage of 
women, weak and resigned from their birth; but man would win 
what he desires : his courage irritates him against his fate, unless 
he can direct it by his will. In London, Oswald met his early 
friends : he heard that language so condensed in power, that it 
seems to imply more thoughts than it explains. Again he saw 
those serious countenances that kindle or that melt so suddenly, 
when deep affections triumph over their habit of reserve. He 
once more tasted the pleasure of making discoveries in the human 
heart, there by degrees revealed to the observant eye. He felt 
himself in his own land, and those who never left it know not by 
how many links it is endeared to them. The image of Corinne 
mingled with all these impressions; and the more reluctant he 
felt to leave his country, the more he wished to marry, and fix in 
Scotland with her. He was even impatient to embark that he 
might return the sooner; but the expedition was suspended, 
though still liable to be ordered abroad immediately. No officer, 
therefore, could dispose of his time even for a fortnight. Lord 
Nevil doubly felt his separation from Corinne, having neither 
leisure nor liberty to form or follow any decided plan. He passed 




CORINNE; OR, ITALY 


297 


six weeks in London, fretted by every moment thus lost to her. 
Finally, he resolved to beguile his impatience by a short visit to 
Northumberland, and, by influencing Lady Edgarmond to recog- 
nize the daughter of her late Lord, contradict the report of her 
death, and the unfavorable insinuations of the papers : for he 
longed to tender her the rank and respect so thoroughly her due. 


CHAPTER V. 

Oswald reflected with emotion that he was about to behold 
the scene in which Corinne had passed so many years. He felt 
embarrassed by the necessity of informing Lady Edgarmond that 
he could not make Lucy his wife. The north of England, too, 
reminded him of Scotland, and the memory of his father was 
never absent from his mind. 

When he reached Lady Edgarmond* s estate, he was struck by 
the good taste which pervaded its grounds; and, as the mistress 
of the mansion was not ready to receive him, he walked awhile in 
the park : through its folhige he beheld a youthful and elegant 
figure reading with much attention. A beautiful fair curl, escap- 
ing from her bonnet, told him that this was Lucy, whom three 
years had improved from child to woman. He approached her, 
bowed, and forgetting where he was, would have imprinted a re- 
spectful kiss upon her hand, after the Italian mode; but the 
young lady drew back, and, blushing as she courtesied, replied, 
il I will inform my mother, sir, that you desire to see her.” She 
withdrew, and Nevil remained awed by the modest air of that 
angelic face. Lucy had just entered her sixteenth year; her 
features were extremely delicate; she had a little outgrown her 
strength, as might be judged by her gait and mutable complexion. 
Her blue eyes were so downcast that her countenance owed its 
chief attraction to these rapid changes of color, which alone be- 
trayed her feelings. Oswald, since he had dwelt in the soutn, 
had never beheld this species of expression. He reproached him 


298 * 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


self for having accosted her with such familiarity ; and, as he fol- 
lowed her to the castle, mused on the perfect innocence of a girl 
who had never left her mother, nor felt one emotion stronger than 
filial tenderness. Lady Edgarmond was alone when she received 
him. He had seen her twice, some years before, without any 
particular notice; but now he observed her carefully, comparing 
her with the descriptions of Corinne. He found them correct in 
many respects ; yet he thought that he detected more sensibility 
than she had done, not being accustomed, like himself, to guess 
what such self-regulated physiognomies conceal. His first anxiety 
was on Corinne’s account, and he began the conversation by 
praising Italy. “ It is an amusing residence for men,” returned 
Lady Edgarmond ; “ but I should be very sorry if any woman, 
in whom I felt an interest, could long be pleased with it.” — “ And 
yet,” continued Oswald, already hurt by this insinuation, “ I 
found there the most distinguished woman I ever met ” — “ Pro- 
bably, as to mental attainments; but an honorable man seeks 
other qualities in the companion of his life.” — “And he would 
find them !” he said, warmly : he might have made his meaning 
clear at once, but that Lucy entered, and said a few words apart 
to her mother, who replied aloud: “No, my dear, you cannot go 
to your cousin’s to-day. Lord Nevil dines here.” Lucy blushed, 
seated herself beside her mother, and took up her embroidery, 
from which she never raised her eyes, nor did she utter, a syllable. 
Nevil was almost angry : it was most probable that Lucy knew 
there had been some idea ef their union : he remembered all 
Corinne had said on the probable effects of the severe education 
Lady Edgarmond would give her daughter. In England, young 
girls are usually more at liberty than married women : reason and 
morality alike favor their privileges ; but Lady Edgarmond would 
have had all females thus rigorously secluded. Oswald could not, 
before Lucy, explain his intentions relative to Corinne ; and Lady 
Edgarmond kept up a discourse on other subjects, with a firm 
and simple good sense, that extorted his deference. He would 
have combated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he used one 
word in a different acceptation from her own, she would form an 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


299 


opinion which nothing could efface ; and he hesitated at this first 
step, so irreparable with a person who will make no individual 
exceptions, but judges everything by fixed and general rules. 
Dinner was announced ; and Lucy offered her arm to Lady Edgar- 
mond. Oswald then first discovered that his hostess walked with 
great difficulty. “ I am suffering,” she .said, “ from a painful, 
perhaps a fatal ailment.” Lucy turned pale; and her mother re- 
sumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness: “My daughter's atten* 
tion has once saved my life, and may preserve it long.” Lucy 
bent her head, and when she rrised it, her lashes were still wet 
with tears; yet she dared not even take her mother’s hand: all 
had passed at the bottom of her heart; and she was only conscious 
of a stranger’s presence, from the necessity of concealing her agi- 
tation. Oswald deeply felt this restraint of hers, and his^mind, 
so lately thrilled by passionate eloquence, refreshed itself by con- 
templating so chastely simple a picture. Lucy seemed enveloped 
in some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations. 
During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue — serving 
everything herself; and Nevil only heard her voice when she 
offered to help him ; but these common-place courtesies were per- 
formed with such enchanting grace, that he asked himself how it 
was possible for such slight actions to betray so much soul. “ One 
must have,” he said to himself, “ either the genius of Corinne, 
that surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious 
mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever virtues 
bo prefers.” 

The mother and daughter rose from table : he would have fol- 
lowed them; but her Ladyship adhered so scrupulously to old 
customs, that she begged he would wait till they sent to let him 
know the tea was ready. He joined them in a quarter of an hour. 
Most part of the evening passed without his having one oppor- 
tunity of speaking to Lady Edgarmond as he, designed. He was 
about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the morrow, 
when his hostess offered him a room in the castle. He accepted 
it without deliberation ; but repented his readiness, on perceiving 
that it seemed to be taken as a proof of his inclination towards 


300 


CORINNE, OR, ITALY. 


Lucy. This was hut an additional motive for his renewing the 
conversation respecting Corinne. Lady Edgarmond proposed a 
turn in the garden. Oswald offered her his arm ; she looked at 
mih steadfastly, and then said : “ That is right : I thank you.” 
Lucy resigned her parent to Nevil, but timidly whispered, “ Pray, 
my Lord, walk slowly !” He started at this first private intelli- 
gence with her: those pitying tones were just such as he might 
have expected from a being above all earthly passions. He did 
not think his sense of such a moment any treason to Corinne. 
They returned for evening prayer, at which her Ladyship always 
assembled her household in the great hall. Most of them were 
very infirm, having served the fathers of Lord and Lady Edgar- 
mond. Oswald was thus reminded of his paternal home. Every 
one knelt, except the matron, who, prevented by her lameness, 
listened with folded hands and downcast eyes in reverent silence. 
Lucy was on her knees beside her parent : it was her duty to 
read the service ; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer 
adapted to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the 
house : its somewhat austere expressions were contrasted by the 
soft voice that breathed them. 

After blessing the king and country, the servants and the 
kindred of this family, Lucy tremblingly added, “ Grant also, 0 
God ! that the young daughter of this house may live and die 
with soul unsullied by a single thought or feeling that conforms 
not with her duty ; and that her mother, who must soon return to 
thee for judgment, may have some claim or pardon for her faults, 
in the virtues of her only child.” 

Lucy said this prayer daily; but now Oswald’s presence so 
affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal, flowed down 
her cheeks. He was touched with respectful tenderness, as he 
gazed on the almost infantine face, that looked as if it still re- 
membered having dwelt in heaven. Its beauty, thus surrounded 
by age and decrepitude, was an image of divine commiseration. 
He reflected on her lonely life, deprived of all the pleasures, all 
the flatteries, due to her youth and charms : his soul melted 
towards her. The mother of Luoy, too, he found a person more 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


301 


severe to herself than to others. The limits of her mind might 
'ather he attributed to the strength of her principles than to any 
natural deficiencies : the asperity of her character was acquired 
from repressed impulses ; and, as Corinne had said, her affection 
for her child gained force from this extreme control of all others. 

By ten in the evening all was silent throughout the castle, and 
Oswald left to muse over his last few hours : he owned not to 
himself that Lucy had made an impression on his heart; perhaps, 
as yet, this was not the case ; but in spite of the thousand attrac- 
tions Corinne offered to his fancy, there was one class of ideas, 
wherein Lucy might have reigned more supremely than her sister. 
The image of domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in 
Northumberland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, 
he remembered which of these sisters his father had selected for 
him : but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had given her 
his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention of confiding this 
to Lady Edgarmond on the morrow. He fell asleep thinking of 
Italy, but still the form of Lucy flitted lightly before him. He 
awoke: when he slept again, the same dream returned; at last 
this ethereal shape seemed flying from him ; he strove to detain 
her, and started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him. 
The day had broken, and he left his room to enjoy a morning 
walk. 


C H APTE B YI. 

The sun was just risen. Oswald supposed that no one was yet 
stirring, till he perceived Lucy already drawing in a balcony. Her 
hair, not yet fastened, was waving in the gale : she looked so like 
his dream, that for a moment he started, as if he had beheld a 
spirit; and though soon ashamed a-t having been so affected by 
such a natural circumstance, he remained for some time beneath 
her station, but she did not perceive him. As he pursued his 
walk, he wished more than -ever for the presence that would have 
dissipated these half formed impressions. Lucy was an enignn, 
26 


802 


CORINNE; OR, IIALl. 


which Corinne’s genius could have solved; without her aid, it 
took a thousand changeful forms in his mind’s eye. He re- 
entered the drawing-room, and found Lucy placing her morning’s 
work in a little brown frame, facing her mother’s tea-table. It 
was a white rose, on its leafy stalk, finished to perfection. “ You 
draw, then?” he said. — “No, my Lord,” she answered; “I 
merely copy the easiest flowers I can find : there is no master 
near us : the little I ever learned I owe to a sister who used to 
give me lessons.” She sighed. — “And what is become of her?” 

asked Oswald “ She is dead ; but I shall always regret her.” — 

He found that she , too had been deceived ;* but her confession 
of regret evinced so amiable a disposition, that he felt more 
pleased, more affected, than before. Lucy was about to retire, 
remembering that she was alone with Lord Nevil, when Lady 
Edgarmond joined them. She looked on her daughter with sur- 
prise and displeasure, and motioned her to withdraw. This first 
informed Oswald that Lucy had done something very extraordi- 
nary, in remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother’s 
presence ; and he was as much gratified as he would have been by 
a decided mark of preference under other auspices. Lady Edgar- 
mond took her seat, and dismissed the servant who had supported 
her to the sofa. She was pale, and her lips trembled as she 
offered a cup of tea to Lord Nevil. These symptoms increased 
his own embarrassment, yet, animated by zeal for her he loved, 
he began : “ Lady Edgarmond, I have often in Italy seen a female 
particularly interesting to you.” — “I cannot believe it,” she 
answered, dryly : “ no one there interests me.” — “ I should think 
that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your affec- 
tion.” — “If the daughter of my husband be indifferent to her 
duties and reputation, though I surely cannot wish her any ill, I 
shall be very glad to hear no more of her.” — “ But,” said Os- 
wald, quickly, “ if the woman your Ladyship deserts is celebrated 

* A religious, moral, English gentlewoman propose a romantic false- 
hood, so likely to wreck its theme on the dangers against which Lady 
Edgarmond warned Corinne ! This anti-national inconsistency neutralizes 
all the rest of Madame de Staël’s intended satire. — Tr. 


303 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

by the world for her great and varied talents, will you forever 
thus disdain her ?” — “ Not the less, sir, for the abilities that wean 
her from her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses, 
artists, and musicians, to amuse society : in our rank, a woman’s 
only becoming station is that which devotes her to her husband 
and children.” — “ Madam,” returned Oswald, “such talents can- 
not exist without an elevated character and a generous heart : do 
you censure them for extending the mind, and giving a more vast, 
more general influence to virtue itself?” — “ Virtue !” she repeated, 
with a bitter smile ; “ I know not what you mean by the word, 
so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from her 
father’s home, establishes herself in Italy, leads the freest life, 
receives all kinds of homage, to say no worse, sets an example 
pernicious to others as to herself, abandoning her rank, her 

family, her name ” — “ Madam,” interrupted Oswald, “she 

sacrificed her name to you, and to your daughter, whom she 
feared to injure.” — “She knew that she dishonored it, then,” 
replied the step-mother. — “This is too much,” said Oswald, vio- 
lently : “ Corinne Edgarmond will soon be Lady Nevil, and we 
shall then see if you blush to acknowledge the daughter of your 
Lord. You confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted like no 
other woman — an angel of goodness, tender and diffident at heart, 
as she is sublime of soul. She may have had her faults, if that 
innate superiority that could not conform with common rules be 
one, but a single deed or word of hers might well efface them all. 
She will more honor the man she chooses to protect her than 
could the empress of a world.” — “ Be that man, then, my Lord !” 
said Lady Edgarmond, making an effort to restrain her feelings : 
“ satirize me as narrow-minded ; nothing you say can change me. 
I understand by morality, an exact observance of established 
rules; beyond which, fine qualities misapplied deserve at best but 
pity.” — “ The world would have been very sterile, my Lady,” 
said Oswald, “had it always thought as you do of genius and 
enthusiasm : human nature would have become a thing of mere 
formalities. But, not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will 
only ask, if you mean to acknowledge your daughter-in-law, when 


304 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


she is my wife ?” — “ Still less on that account,” answered her 
Ladyship : “ I owe your father’s memory my exertions to pre- 
vent so fatal a union if I can.” — “My father!” repeated Nevil, 
always agitated by that name “ Are you ignorant,” she con- 

tinued, “ that he refused her, ere she had committed any actual 
fault ? foreseeing, with the perfect sagacity that so characterized 
him, what she would one day become?” — “How, madam ! what 
more know you of this?” — “Your father’s letter to Lord Edgar- 
mond on the subject,” interrupted the lady, “is in the hands of 
his old friend, Mr. Dickson. I sent it to him, when I heard of 
your connection with this Corinne, that you might read it on your 
return : it would not have become me to retain it.” Oswald, 
after a few moments’ silence, resumed : “ I ask your Ladyship but 
for an act of justice, due to yourself, that is, to receive your hus- 
band’s daughter as she deserves.” — “I shall not, in any way, my 
Lord, contribute to your misery. If her present nameless and 
unmatronized existence be an obstacle to your marrying her, God, 
and your father, forbid that I should remove it !” — “ Madam,” he 
exclaimed, “ her misfortunes are but added chains that bind me 
to her.” — “Well,” replied Lady Edgarmond, with an impetuosity 
to which she would not have given way had not her own child 
been thus deprived of a suitable husband, “ well, render yourself 
wretched, then ! she will be so too : she hates this country, and 
never will comply with its manners : this is no theatre for the 
versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so fastidious. 
She will carry you back to Italy : you will forswear your friends 
and native land, for a lovely foreigner, I confess, but for one who 
could forget you, if you wished it. Those flighty brains are 
ever changeful : deep griefs were made for the women you deem 
so common-place, those who live but for their homes and fami- 
lies.” This was, perhaps, the first time in her life that Lady 
Edgarmond had spoken on impulse : it shook her weakened 
nerves; and, as she ceased, she sank back, half fainting. Os- 
wald rang loudly for help. Lucy ran in alarmed, hastened to 
revive her parent, and cast on Nevil an uneasy look, that seemed 
to say : “ Is it yon. who have made mamma so ill ?” He felt this 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 305 

deeply, and strove to atone by attentions to Lady Edgarmond ; 
but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to think that she had 
seemed to pride but little in her girl, by betraying this anxiety to 
secure her a reluctant bridegroom. She bade Lucy leave them, 
and said calmly : “ My Lord, at all events, I beg that you will 
consider yourself free. My daughter is so young, that she is no 
way concerned in the project formed by your father and myself; 
but that being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to 
receive you uutil she is married / 7 Nevil bowed. — “I will con- 
tent myself, then , 77 he said, “with writing to you on the fate of a 
person whom I can never desert . 77 — “ You are the master of that 
fate , 77 concluded Lady Edgarmond, in a smothered voice; and 
Oswald departed. In riding down the avenue, he perceived, at a 
distance, the elegant figure of young Lucy. He checked his 
horse to look on her once more, and it appeared that she took 
the same direction with himself. The high road passed before a 
summer-house, at the end of the park ; he saw her enter it, and 
went by with some reluctance, unable to discern her : he fre- 
quently turned his head, and, at a point from which the road was 
best commanded, observed a slight movement among the trees. 
He stopped ; it ceased : uncertain whether he had guessed cor- 
rectly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back with the speed of 
lightning, as if he had dropped something by the way; there, 
indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the bank, and bowed respect- 
fully : she drew down her veil, and hastily concealed herself in 
the thicket, forgetting that she thus tacitly avowed the motive 
which had brought her there. The poor child had never felt so 
guilty in her life; and far from thinking of simply returning his 
salute, she feared that she must have lost his good opinion by 
having been so forward. Oswald felt flattered by this blameless 
and timorous sincerity. “ No one , 77 thought he, “ could be. more 
candid than Corinne ; but then, no one better knew herself or 
others. Lucy had all to learn. Yet this charm of the day, could 
it suffice for a life? this pretty ignorance cannot endure; and 
since we must penetrate the secrets of our own hearts at last, is 
not the candor which survives such examination worth more than 
26 * 


806 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


that which precedes it ?” This comparison, he believed, was but 
an amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it more 
gravely. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Oswald proceeded to Scotland. The effect of Lucy's presence, 
the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alike gave place to the 
emotions that awakened at the sight of scenes where he had dwelt 
with his father. He upbraided himself with the dissipations in 
which he had spent the last year; fearing that he was no longer 
worthy to re-enter the abode he now wished he had never quitted. 
Alas ! after the loss of life’s dearest object, how can we be content 
with ourselves, unless in perfect retirement ? We cannot mix in 
society, without in some way neglecting our worship of the dead. 
In vain their memory reigns in the heart’s core ; we lend our- 
selves to the activity of the living, which banishes the thought of 
death as painful and unavailing. If solitude prolongs not our 
regrets, life, as it is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews 
their interests, their passions. This imperious necessity is one 
of the sad conditions of human nature ; and although decreed by 
Providence, that man may support the idea of death, both for 
himself and others, yet often, in the midst of our enjoyments, we 
feel remorse at being still capable of them, and seem to hear a 
resigned, affecting voice asking us : “ Have you, whom I so loved, 
forgotten me ?” Oswald felt not now the despair he had suffered 
on his first return home after his father’s death, bnt a melancholy, 
deepened by his perceiving that time had accustomed every one 
else to the loss he still deplored. The servants no longer thought 
it their duty to speak of the late lord ; his place in the rank of 
life was filled; children grow up as substitutes for their sires. 
Oswald shut himself in his father’s room, for lonely meditation. 
f Oh, human destiny 1” he sighed, “what wouldst thou have? so 
much life perish ? so many thoughts expire ? No, no, my only 
friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is present — our immortal 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 307 

spirits still commune* Ob, God ! be thou my guide. Those iron 
souls, that seem immovable as nature’s rocks, pity not the vacilla- 
tions and repentance of the sensitive, the conscientious, who can- 
not take one step without the fear of straying from the right. 
They may bid duty lead them, but duty’s self would vanish from 
their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their hearts.” 

Iu the evening Oswald roved through the favorite walks of his 
father. Who has not hoped, in the ardor of his prayers, that the 
one dear shade would reappear, and miracles be wrought by the 
force of love? Yain trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. 
These endless uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler 
the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in speculations. 
While Oswald wandered thus absorbed, he did, indeed, behold a 
venerable man slowly advancing towards him. Such a sight at 
suc.h a time and place, took a strong effect; but he soon recog- 
nized his father’s friend, Mr. Dickson, and wdth an affection 
which he never felt for him before. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

This gentleman in no way equalled the parent of Oswald, but 
he was with him at his death ; and having been born in the same 
year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry Lord Nevil some 
tidings of his son. Oswald offered him his arm as they went up 
stairs; and felt a pleasure in paying attention to age, however 
little resembling that of his father. Mr. Dickson remembered 
Oswald’s birth, and hesitated not to speak his mind on all that 
concerned his young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection 
with Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less 
ascendency over Oswald’s mind than those of Lady Edgarmond, 
had he not handed him the letter to which she alluded. With 
considerable tremor he read as follows: — 

“Will you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose a change 
of plan in the union of our families ? My son is more than a 


308 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


year younger than your eldest daughter; trill it not he better, 
therefore, that he should wait for the little Lucy? I might con- 
fine myself to the subject of age ; but, as I knew Miss Edgar- 
mond's when first I named my wishes, I should deem myself 
wanting in confidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for 
desiring that this marriage may not take place. We have known 
each other for twenty years, and may speak frankly of our children, 
especially while they are young enough to be improved by our 
opinions. Your daughter is a charming girl, but I seem to be 
gazing on one of those Grecian beauties, who, of old, enchanted 
and subdued the world. Do not be offended by this comparison. 
She can have received from you none but the purest principles; 
yet she certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensa- 
tion : she has more genius than self-love ; such talents as hers 
necessarily engender a taste for display; and I know no theatre 
that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose impetuous fancy, 
and ardent feelings, break through each word she utters. She 
would inevitably wean my son from England ; for such a woman 
could not be happy here : only Italy can content her. She must 
have that free life which is guided but by fantasy : our domestic 
country habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this 
happy land ought to be in all things English, ar\d fulfil the duties 
to which he is so fortunately called. In countries whose political 
institutions give men such honorable opportunities for public ac- 
tion, the women should bloom in the shade : can you expect so 
distinguished a person as your daughter to be satisfied with such 
a lot? Take my advice. Marry her in Italy; her religion and 
manners suit that country. If my son should wed her, I am sure 
it would be from love, for no one can be more engaging : to please 
her, he would endeavor to introduce foreign customs into his 
establishment, and would soon lose his national character, those 
prejudices, if you please to call them so, which unite us with each 
other, and render us a body free but indissoluble, or which can 
only be broken up by the death of its last associate. My son 
could not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy : he is 
sensitive, even to weakness; and his expatriation, if I lived ta 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


309 


see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as deprived 
of my son, but as knowing him lost to the glory of serving his 
native land. Is it worthy a mountaineer to drag on a useless life 
amid the pleasures of Italy ? A Scot become the cicisbeo of his 
own wife, if not of some other man’s? Neither the guide nor the 
prop of his family ! I even rejoice that Oswald is now in France, 
and still unknown to a lady whose empire over him would be too 
great. I dare conjure you, my dear friend, should I die before 
his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daughter until 
Lucy be of an age to fix his affections. Let him learn my wishes, 
if requisite. I know he will respect them — the more if I should 
then be removed from this life. Give all your attention, I entreat 
you, to his union with Lucy. Child as she is, her features, look, 
and voice, all express the most endearing modesty. She will be 
a true Englishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of my 
boy. If I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall exult over 
it in heaven ; and when we reunite there, my dear friend, our 
prayers and benedictions will protect our children still. 

“ Ever yours, 

“ Nevil.” 

After reading this, Oswald remained silent, and left Mr. Dick- 
son time to continue his long discourse without interruption. He 
admired the judgment of his friend, who, nevertheless, he said, 
was far from anticipating the reprehensible life Miss Edgarmond 
had since led : a marriage between Oswald and herself now, he 
added, would be an eternal insult to Lord Nevil’s memory; who, 
it appeared, during his son’s fatal residence in France, had passed 
a whole summer at Lady Edgarmond’s, solacing himself by super- 
intending the education of his favorite Lucy. In fact without 
either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dickson attacked the heart of 
Oswald through all the avenues of sensibility. Thus everything 
conspired against the absent Corinne, who had no means, save 
letters, for reviving from time to time, the tenderness of Oswald. 
She had to contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the 
exhortation of his friends in favor of resolutions so easy to adopt, 


310 


CORINNE; OR, IÏALY. 

as they led him towards a budding, beauty, whose every charm 
seemed to harmonize with the calm, chaste hopes of a domestic 
lot. 


BOOK XVII. 

CORINNE IN SCOTLAND. 

CHAPTER I. 

Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the Brenta : 
could not quit the scenes in which she had last met Oswald — 
and also hoped that she should here receive her letters earlier than 
at Rome. Prince Castel Forte had written, begging leave to visit 
her; but she refused. The friendship existing between them 
commanded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach her 
from her love — had he told her what she so often told herself — 
that absence must decrease NeviTs attachment, one inconsiderate 
word would have been a dagger to her heart. She wished to see 
no one; yet it is not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent,** 
and its situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude re- 
quire peace of mind; if that be lost, forced gayety, however trou- 
blesome, is more serviceable than meditation. If we could trace 
madness to its source, we should surely find that it originated in 
the power of one single thought, which excluded all mental vari- 
ety. Corinne’s imagination consumed herself, unless diverted by 
external excitement. What a life now succeeded that which she 
had led for nearly a year, with the man of her heart's choice for- 
ever with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest 
friend, and fondest lover! Now, all was barren around and gloomy 
within her. The only interesting event was the arrival of a let- 
ter from him; and the irregularity of the post, during winter, 
every day tormented her with expectations, often disappointed. 
Each morning she walked on the banks of the canal, now covered 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


311 


by large-leaved water-lilies, watching for the black gondola, which 
she had learned to distinguish afar off. How did her heart beat, 
as she perceived it! Sometimes the messenger would answer : “ No 
letters for you, madame/’ and carelessly proceeded to other matters, 
as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters; another timo 
he would say : “ Yes, madame, here are some.” She ran over 
them all with a trembling hand : if the well-known characters of 
Oswald met not her eye, the day was terrible, the night sleepless 
the morrow redoubled her anxiety and suspense. “ Surely,” she 
thought, “ he might write more frequently ;” and her next letter 
reproached his silence. He justified himself; but his style had 
already lost some of its tenderness : instead of expressing his own 
solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers. This 
change did not escape her : day and night would she reperuse a 
particular phrase, seeking some new interpretation on which to 
build a few days’ composure. This state shattered her nerves.: 
she became superstitious. Constantly occupied by the same fear, 
we may draw presages from everything. One day in every week 
she went to Venice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some 
hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting; and in 
a short time she conceived as great a horror for every object she 
encountered on her way, as if they had been the spectres of her 
own thoughts, reappearing clothed in the most dreadful aspects. 
Once, on entering the church of St. Mark, she remembered how, 
on her arrival in Venice, the idea had occurred to her that per- 
haps, ere she departed, Oswald would lead her thither to call her 
his in sight of Heaven. She gave way once more to this illusion ; 
saw him approach the altar; heard him vow before his God to 
love her forever ; they knelt together, and she received the nup- 
tial crown. The organ, then playing, and the lights that shone 
through the aisle, gave life to her vision ; and for a moment she 
felt not the cruel void of absence : but suddenly a dreary murmur 
succeeded — she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the church. 
She staggered ; her sight almost failed ; and from that moment 
Bhe felt convinced that her love for Oswald would lead her but to 
the grave. # 


312 


CORINNE} OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER II. 

Lord Neyil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of men. 
He must either break the heart of Corinne, or outrage the memory 
of his father. Cruel alternative ! to escape which he called on 
death a thousand times a day. At last, he once more resorted to 
his habitual procrastination, telling himself that he would go to 
Venice, since he could not resolve to write Corinne the truth, and 
make her his judge ; but then he daily expected that his regiment 
would embark. He was free from all engagement with Lucy. He 
believed it his duty not to marry Corinne ; but in what other way 
could he pass his life with her ? Could he desert his country ? or 
bring her to it, and ruin her fair name forever ? He resolved to 
hide from her the obstacles which he had encountered from her 
step-mother, because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them. 
Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them with 
subjects remote from his future prospects. Any one, save Corinne, 
would have guessed all; but passion rendered her at once quick- 
sighted and credulous. In such a state, we see nothing in a natu- 
ral manner : but discover what is concealed, while blind to that 
which should seem clearest. We cannot brook the idea of suffering 
so much without some extraordinary cause ; we will not confess 
to ourselves that such despair may be produced by the simplest 
circumstances in life. Though Oswald pitied her, and blamed 
himself, his correspondence betrayed an irritation which it did not 
explain } wildly reproaching her for what he endured, as if she 
had not been far the most unfortunate. This tone deprived her 
of all mastery over herself. Her mind was disordered by the 
most fatal images : she could not believe that the being capable 
of writing with such abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same 
Oswald she had known so generous, so tender, She felt a resist- 
less desire to see and speak with him once more. “ Let me hear 
him tell me/’ she raved, “ that it is he who thus mercilessly stabs 
her whose least pain once so strongly afflicted him } let him say 
so, and I submit : but some infernal power seems to inspire this 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


813 


language; it is not Oswald who writes thus to me. They have 
slandered me to him : some treachery must be exerted, or I could 
not be used thus.” She adopted the resolution of going to Scot- 
land, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious grief, which 
would fain alter its present situation at all hazards. She dared 
not write nor speak to any one on this subject, still flattering her- 
self that some fortunate change would prevent her acting on a 
plan, which, nevertheless, soothed her imagination, and forced her 
to look forward. To read was now impossible : music thrilled 
her to agony : and the charms of nature induced a reverie that 
redoubled her distress. This creature, once so animated, now 
passed whole days in motionless silence. Her internal pangs were 
but betrayed by a mortal paleness : her eyes were frequently fixed 
upon her watch, though she knew not why she should wish one 
hour to succeed another, since not one of them could bring her 
aught, save restless nights and despairing days. 

One evening, she was informed that a female was earnestly re- 
questing to see her: she consented; and the woman entered her 
presence dressed in black, and veiled, to conceal, as much as pos- 
sible, a face deformed by the most frightful malady. Thus wronged 
by nature, she consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor ; 
demanding them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success. 
Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in return. 
The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was astonished to behold 
a person so lovely, young, rich, and celebrated, a prey to sorrow 
« My God, madame,” she cried, “ I would you were as calm as 1 1” 
What an address from such an object to the most brilliant woman 
in Italy ! Alas ! the power of love is too vast in souls like hers. 
Happy are they who consecrate to Heaven the sentiments no 
earthly ties can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Co- 
rinne; she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed, 
indeed, but not submissively. Her peerless talents, the glory they 
had won, gave her too great an interest in herself. It is only by 
detaching our hearts from all the world that we can renounce the 
thing we love. Every other sacrifice must precede this : life may 
27 


314 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

be long a desert ere the fire that made it so is quenched. At last, 
in the midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from 
Oswald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six weeks, 
and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this delay to visit 
Venice without injuring his reputation. There was but just time 
for Corinne to reach England, ere he must leave it, perhaps for- 
ever. This thought decided her; she was not ignorant of her 
own rashness; she judged herself more severely than any one else 
could. Pity her, then ! What woman has a right to “ cast the first 
stone” at the unfortunate sister, who justifies not her fault, hopes 
for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as if 
driven on by persecuting spirits ? Her letter to Castel Forte thus 
concludes: “Adieu, my faithful protector! Adieu, my friends in 
Rome ! with whom I passed such joyous, easy days. It is done 
— all is over. Fate has stricken me. I feel the wound is mortal. 
I struggle still, but soon shall fall. I must see him again. I 
am not answerable for myself. A storm is in my breast such as 
I cannot govern ; but I draw near the term at which all will cease. 
This is the last act of my history : it will end in penitence and 
death. Oh, wild confusion of the human heart ! Even now, 
while I am obeying the will of passion, I see the shades of even- 
ing in the distance, I hear a voice divine that whispers me: 
‘ Still these fond agitations, hapless wretch ! the abode of endless 
rest awaits thee.’ 0 Hod ! grant me the presence of mine Os- 
wald once more, but one last moment ! The very memory of his 
features now is darkened by despair; but is there not something 
heavenly in his look ? Did not the air become more pure, more 
brilliant, as he approached ? You, my friend, have seen him with 
me, have witnessed his kind cares, and the respect with which he 
inspired others for the woman of his choice. How can I live 
without him ? Pardon my ingratitude : ought I thus to requite 
thy disinterested constancy ? But I am no longer worthy any 
blessing; and might pass for insane, had I net still the miserable 
consciousness of mine own madness. Farewell, then — yes, fare- 
well !” 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY 


31& 


CHAPTER III. 

How pitiable is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits a 
great imprudence for a man whose love she knows inferior to her 
own ! She has but herself to be her support. If she has risked 
repose and character to do some signal service for her idol, she 
may be envied. Sweet is the self-devotion that braves all danger 
to save a life that is dear to us, or solace the distress which rends 
a heart responsive to our own. Rut thus to travel unknown lands, 
to arrive without being expected, to blush before the one beloved, 
for the unasked proof thus given of his power — painful degrada- 
tion ! What would it be if we thus involved the happiness of 
others, and outraged our duty to more sacred bonds ? Corinne 
was free. She sacrificed but her own peace and glory. Her con- 
duct was irrational, indeed, but it could overcloud no destiny save 
hers.* 

On landing in England, Corinne learned from the papers that 
Lord Nevil’s departure was still delayed. She saw no society in 
London except the family of a banker, to whom she had been 
recommended under a false name. He was interested in her at 
first sight, and enjoined his wife and daughter to pay her all the 
attentions in their power. She fell dangerously ill, and, for a 
fortnight, her new friends watched over her with the most tender 
care. She heard that Lord Nevil was in Scotland, but must 
shortly rejoin his regiment in London. She knew not how to 
announce herself, as she had not written to him respecting her 
intentions — indeed, Oswald had not received a letter from her 
for three months. He mentally accused her of infidelity, as if he 
had any right to complain. On his return to town, he went first 
to his agents, where he hoped to find letters from Italy : there 
were none; and, as he was musing over this silence, he encoun- 

* The Corinnes of this world care little how they pain the Castel Fortes. 
The mere esteem of such a man would have been worth even the love 0/ 
twenty Oswalds. — Tr. 


316 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

tered Mr. Edgarmond, who asked him for news of Corinne. ;s I 
hear nothing of her,” he replied, irritably. — “ That I can easily 
understand,” added Edgarmond : “ these Italians always forgei a 
fereigner, once out of sight; one ought never to heed it; they 
would be too delightful if they united constancy with genius : it 
is but fair that our own women should have some advantage !” 
He squeezed Oswald’s hand as he said this, and took leave, as he 
was just starting for Wales; but his few words had pierced their 
hearer’s heart. — u Iam wrong,” he said, “ to wish she should 
regret me, since I cannot constitute her happiness ; but so soon 
to forget ! This blights the past as well as the future.” 

Despite his father’s will, he had resolved not to see Lucy more ; 
and even scorned himself for the impression she had made on him. 
Condemned as he was to defeat the hopes of Corinne, he felt that, 
at least, he ought to preserve his heart’s faith inviolately hers : 
no duty urged him to forfeit that. He renewed his solicitations 
in her cause, by letters to Lady Edgarmond, who did not even 
deign to answer them : meanwhile, Mr. Dickson assured him that 
the only way of melting her to his wishes would be — marrying 
her daughter; whose establishment, she feared, Corinne might 
frustrate, if she resumed her name, and was received by her 
family. Fate had hitherto spared her the pang of suspecting 
Oswald’s interest in her sister. Never was she herself more 
worthy of him than now. During her illness, the candid, sim- 
ple bèings by whom she was surrounded, had given her a sincere 
taste for English habits and manners. The few persons she saw 
were anything but distinguished, yet possessed an estimable 
strength, and justice of mind. Their affection for her was less 
professing than that to which she had been accustomed, but 
evinced with every opportunity by fresh good offices. The aus- 
terity of Lady Edgarmond, the tedium of a small country town, 
had cruelly misled her as to the kindness, the true nobility to be 
found in the country she had abandoned : unluckily, she now 
became attached to it under such circumstances, that it would 
have been better for her own peace had she never been untaught 
her dislike. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


317 


CHAPTER IV. 

Tiie banker’s family, who were forever studying how to prove 
their friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. Siddons perforin 
Isabella, in the Fatal Marriage, one of the characters in which 
that great actress best displayed her admirable genius. Corinne 
refused for some time : at last, she remembered that Lord Nevil 
had often compared her manner of recitation with that of Mrs. 
Siddons : she was therefore anxious to see her, and thickly veiled, 
went to a small box, whence she could see all, herself unseen. 
She knew not if Oswald was in London, but feared to be recog- 
nized by any one who might have met her in Italy. The com- 
manding beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine so riveted 
her attention, that, during the earliest acts, her eyes were never 
turned from the stage. 

English declamation is better calculated than any other to 
touch the soul, especially when such fine talents give it all its 
power and originality. It is less artificial, less conventional than 
that of France. The impressions produced are more immediate — • 
for thus would true despair express itself ; the plots and versifica- 
tion of English* dramas too are less remote from real life, and 
their effect more heart-rending. It requires far higher genius to 
become a great actor in France, so little liberty being left to in- 
dividual manner, so much influence attached to general rules ; (33) 
but in England you may risk anything, if inspired by nature. 
The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, make those 
shudder who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most nobly-mannered 
woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost none of her dignity by pros- 
trating herself on the earth. There is no action but may become 
graceful, if prompted by an impulse which rises from the depths 
of the breast, and lords it over the mind which conceives it still 
more than over its witnesses. Various nations have their different 
styles of tragic acting, but the expression of gtief is understood 
from one end of the world to the other ; and, from the savage to 
27* 


318 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


the king, there is some similarity between all men while they 
are really suffering. 

Between the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed that all 
eyes were turned towards a box, in which she beheld Lady Ed- 
garmond and her daughter; she could not doubt that it was Lucy, 
much as the last seven years bad embellish her form. The 
death of a rich relation had obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit 
London, and settle the succession of his fortune. Lucy was more 
dressed than usual ;* and it was long since so beauteous a girl 
had been seen, even in England, where the women are so lovely. 
Corinne felt a melancholy surprise : she thought it impossible for 
Oswald to resist that countenance. On comparing herself with 
her sister, she was so conscious of her own inferiority, that she 
exaggerated (if such exaggeration be possible) the charm of that 
fair complexion, those golden curls, and innocent blue eyes — 
that image of life’s spring ! She felt almost degraded in setting 
her own mental acquirements in competition with gifts thus lav- 
ished by Heaven itself. Suddenly, in an opposite box, she per- 
ceived Lord Nevil, whose gaze was fixed on Lucy. What a 
moment for Corinne ! She once more beheld that face, for which 
she had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the 
image could be effaced — she beheld it again — absorbed by the 
beauty of another. Oswald could not guess the presence of Co- 
rinne ; but if his eye had even wandered towards her, she might, 
from such a chance, have drawn a happy omen. 

Mrs. Siddons reappeared, and Lord Nevil looked but on her. 
Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere curiosity had drawn 
his glance towards Lucy. The tragedy became every moment 
more affecting; and the fair girl was bathed in tears, which she 
strove to conceal, by retiring to the back of her box. Nevil 
noticed this with increased interest. At last the dreadful instant 

If Englishwomen ever do go into public immediately after the death 
of a near relation, it must be in deep mourning. Corinne saw these 
wonders very plainly, considering that Lady Edgarmond and Lucy sat 
on the same side of the house with herself ; which must have been the 
case, bv her calling Oswald’s an opposite box. — Tr. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


319 


came when Isabella, laughing; at the fruitless efforts of those who 
would restrain her, stabs herself to the heart. That despairing 
laugh is the most difficult and powerful effect which tragic acting 
can produce; its bitter irony moves one to more than tears. How 
terrible must be the suffering that inspires so barbarous a joy, and 
in the sight of our own blood, feels the ferocious pleasure that 
one might experience when taking full revenge upon some savage 
foe. It was evident that Lucy’s agitation had alarmed her 
mother, who turned anxiously towards her. Oswald rose, as if 
he would have flown to them ; but he soon reseated himself, and 
Corinne felt some relief ; yet she sighed ; “ My sister Lucy, once 
so dear to me, has a feeling heart; why should I then wish to de- 
prive. her of a blessing she may enjoy without impediment, with- 
out any sacrifice on Oswald’s part?” 

,When the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the parties who 
were leaving the house had gone, that she might avoid recognition ; 
she concealed herself near the door of her box, where she could 
see what passed near her. As soon as Lucy came out, a crowd 
assembled to look on her ; and exclamations in praise of her beauty 
were heard from all sides, which greatly embarrassed her; the 
infirm Lady Edgarmond was ill able to brave the throng, despite 
the cares of her child, and the politeness shown them both ; but 
the}' knew no one, therefore no gentleman dared accost them. 
Lord Nevil, seeing their situation, hastened to offer each an arm. 
Lucy, blushing and downcast, availed herself of this attention. 
They passed close by Corinre, whom Oswald little suspected of 
witnessing a sight so painful : he was proud of thus escorting one 
“f the handsomest girls in England through the numerous admirers 
who followed her steps.* 

* If so scrupulous a person as Lady Edgarmond would take her 
daughter to a theatre without male protection, she could not, fortunately, 
h£,ve been exposed to all these annoyances. Our private boxes are few. 
Each side has its own passage and staircase. Oswald might make his 
way from one to the other; but if all the individuals on one side left the 
house as soon as the tragedy concluded, they could not, after quitting 
their boxes, be thus seen by the parties opposite. I have vainly en- 
deavored to clear this obscurity. — Tr. 


320 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Corinne returned to her dwelling in cruel disquiet; not know* 
ing what steps to take, how to apprise Nevil of her arrival, nof 
what to say in defence of her motives; for every instant lessened 
her confidence in his love : sometimes it seemed as if the man 
she sought to see again were some passionately beloved stranger, 
who could not even recognize her. She sent to his house the 
next evening, and was informed that he had gone to Lady Edgar- 
mond’s; the same answer was brought her on the following day, 
with tidings that her ladyship was ill, and would return to 
Northumberland on her recovery. Corinne waited for her réraova.1 
ere she let Oswald know she was in England. Every evening 
she walked by her step-mother’s residence, and saw his carriage 
at its door. An inexpressible oppression seized on her heart : 
yet she daily persevered, and daily received the same shock. She 
erred, however, in supposing that Oswald was there as the suitor 
of Lucy. 

As he led Lady Edgarmond to her carriage, after the play, she 
told him that Corinne was concerned in the will of their late 
kinsman ; and begged that he would write to Italy on the arrange- 
ments made in the affair. As Oswald promised to call, he fancied 
he felt the hand of Lucy tremble. Corinne’s silence persuaded him 
that he was no longer dear to her; and the emotion of this young 
girl gave him the idea that she was interested in him. Yet he 
thought not of breaking his promise to Corinne : the ring she held 
was a pledge that he would never marry another without her con- 
sent. He sought her step-mother next day, merely on her account ; 
but Lady Edgarmond was so ill, and her daughter so uneasy at 
finding herself in London without another relative near her, with- 
out even knowing to what physician she should apply, that, in duty 
to the friends of his father, Oswald felt he ought to devote his time 
to their service. The cold, proud Lady Edgarmond had never 
softened so much as she did now ; letting him visit her every day 
without his having said a word that could be construed into a 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


321 


proposal for her daughter, whose beauty, rank, and fortune 
rendered her one of the first matches in England. Since her 
appearance in public, her address had been eagerly inquired, and 
her door besieged by the nobility; yet her mother went nowhere 
— received no one but Lord Nevil. Could he avoid feeling: flat- 
tered by this silent and delicate generosity, which trusted him 
without conditions, without complaint? yet every time he went 
did he fear that his presence would be interpreted into an engage- 
ment. He would have ceased to go thither as soon as Corinne’s 
business was settled, but that Lady Edgarmond underwent a 
relapse, more dangerous than her first attack; and had she died, 
Lucy would have had no friend beside her but himself. She had 
never breathed a word that could assure him of her preference ; 
yet he fancied he detected it in the light but sudden changes of 
her cheek, the abrupt fall of her lashes, and the rapidity of her 
breathing. He studied her young heart with tender interest; and 
her reserve left him always uncertain as to the nature of her senti- 
ments. The highest eloquence of passion cannot entirely satisfy the 
fancy; we desire something beyond it; and not finding that, must 
cither cool or sate ; while the faint light which we perceive through 
clouds, long keeps our curiosity in suspense, and seems to promise 
a whole future of new discoveries : this expectation is never grati- 
fied ; for when we know what all this mystery hid, its charm is 
gone, and we awake to regret the candid impulses of a more ani- 
mated character. How then can we prolong the heart’s enchant- 
ment, since doubt and confidence, rapture and misery, alike 
destroy it in the end ? These heavenly joys belong not to our 
fate; they never cross our path, save to remind us of our immortal 
origin and hopes. 

Lady Edgarmond was better; and talked of departing, in two 
days, for her estate in Scotland, near that of Lord Nevil, whither 
he had purposed going before the embarkation of his regiment : 
she anticipated his proposing to accompany her, but he said noth- 
ing. Lucy gazed on him in silence for a moment, then hastily 
rose, and went to the window : on some pretext Nevil shortly 
followed her, and fancied that her lids were wet with tears: In 
sighed, and the forgetfulness of which he had accused Corbins 


322 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


returning to his memory, he asked himself whether this young 
creature might not prove more capable of constant love ? He 
wished to atone for the pain he had inflicted. It is delightful 
to rekindle smiles on a countenance so nearly infantine. Grief is 
out of place, where even reflection has yet left no trace. There 
was to be a review in Hyde Park on the morrow ; he therefore 
entreated Lady Edgarmond to drive there with her daughter, and 
afterwards permit his taking a ride with Lucy beside her carriage. 
Miss Edgarmond had once said that she greatly wished to mount 
a horse, and looked at her mother with appealing submission : 
after a little deliberation, the invalid held out her wasting hand 
to Oswald, saying : “ If you request it, my Lord, I consent.” 
These words so alarmed him, that he would have abandoned his 
own proposal; but that Lucy, with a vivacity she had never be- 
fore betrayed, took her mother’s hand, and kissed it gratefully. 
He had not the courage to deprive an innocent being, who led so 
lonely'a life, of an amusement she so much desired. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Por a fortnight, Corinne had endured the severest anxiety; 
every morning she hesitated whether she should write to Oswald ; 
every evening she had the inexpressible grief of knowing that he 
was with Lucy. Her sufferings made her daily more timid : she 
blushed to think that he might not approve the step she had 
taken. “ Perhaps,” she often said, “all thought of Italy is 
banished from his breast : he no longer needs in woman a gifted 
mind or an impassioned heart; all that can please him now is the 
angelic beauty of sixteen, the fresh and diffident soul that conse- 
crates to him its first emotions.” Her imagination was so struck 
with the advantages of her young sister, that she was abashed, 
disarmed, depreciatingly disgusted with herself. Though not yet 
eight-and-twenty, she had already reached that era when women 
sadly distrust their power to please. Her pride and jealonsy con* 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


323 


tending, made her defer from day to day the dreaded yet desired 
moment of her meeting with Oswald. She learned that his regi- 
ment would be reviewed, and resolved on being present. Sho 
thought it probable that Lucy would be there : if so, she would 
trust her own eyes to judge the state of NeviFs heart. At first, 
she thought of dressing herself with care, and suddenly appearing 
before him ; but at her toilet, her black hair, her skin slightly em- 
browned by the Italian sun, her prominent features, all discouraged 
her. She remembered the ethereal aspect of her sister; and, throw- 
ing aside her rich array, assumed a black Yenitian garb, covered 
her head and figure with the mantle worn in that country, and 
threw herself into a coach. In Hyde Park, she found groups of 
gentlemen, attired with simple elegance, escorting their fair and 
modest ladies. The virtues proper to each sex seemed thus to meet. 
Scarcely was she there ere she beheld Oswald at the head of his 
corps : its men looked up to him with confidence and devotion. 
The uniform lent him a more imposing air than usual, and he 
reined his charger with perfectly graceful dexterity. The band 
played pieces of music at once proud and sweet, which seemed 
nobly enjoying the sacrifice of life : among them, “ God save the 
King,” so dear to English hearts ; and Corinne exclaimed : “ Re- 
spected land ! which ought to be my own ! why did I ever leave 
thee? What matters more or less of personal fame, amid so 
much true merit ? and what glory could equal that of being called 
Lord NeviFs worthy wife?” 

The martial instruments recalled to her mind the perils he 
must brave so soon. Unseen by him she gazed through her 
tears, sighing : “ Oh, may he live, though it be not for me ! My 
God ! it is Oswald only I implore thee to preserve !” At th'S 
moment Lady Edgarmond’s carriage drove up. Nevil bowed 
respectfully, and lowered the point of his sword. No one who 
looked on Lucy but admired her : Oswald’s glances pierced the 
heart of Corinne : she knew their meaning well, for such had once 
been bent on her. The horses he had lent to Lady Edgarmond 
passed to and fro with exquisite speed, while the equipage of 
Corinne was drawn after these flying coursers almost as slowly aa 


324 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


a hearse. “ It was not thus,” she thought, “ vhat I approached 
the Capitol: no; he has dashed me from my car of triumph into 
an abyss of misery. I love him, and the joys of life are lost. I 
love him, and the gifts of nature fade. Pardon him, 0 my 
God ! when I am gone.” Oswald was now close to her vehicle. 
The Italian dress caught his eye, and he rode round, in hopes of 
beholding the face of this unknown. Her heart beat violently; 
and all her fear was that she should faint and be discovered ; but 
she restrained her feelings; and Lord Nevil relinquished the idea 
which beset him. When the review was over, to avoid again 
attracting his attention, she alighted, and retired behind the trees, 
so as not to be observed. Oswald then went up to Lady Edgar- 
mond, and showed her a very gentle horse, which his servants 
had brought hither for Lucy : her mother bade him be very care- 
ful of her. He dismounted, and, hat in hand, conversed through 
the carriage door with so feeling an expression, that Corinne could 
attribute this regard for the mother to nothing less than an 
attachment for the daughter. Lucy left the carriage : a riding 
habit charmingly defined the elegant outline of her figure : she 
wore a black hat with white plumes — her fair silken locks float- 
ing airily about her smiling face. Oswald placed his hand as her 
step: she had expected this service from a domestic, and blushed 
at receiving it from him ; but he insisted, and at last, she set her 
little foot in his hand, then sprung so lightly to her saddle, that 
she seemed one of those sylphid shapes which fancy paints in 
colors so delicate. She set off at a gallop. Oswald followed, 
never losing sight of her : once the horse made a false step : he in 
stantly checked it, examining the bit and bridle with the most 
kind solicitude. Shortly afterwards the animal ran away. Oswald 
turned pale as death, spurring his own steed to an incredible fleet- 
ness ; in a second he overtook that of Lucy, leaped from his seat, 
and threw himself before her. She shuddered in her turn lest 
she should harm him ; but with one hand he seized her rein, sup- 
porting her with the other, as she gently leaned against him. 

W'hat more needed Corinne to convince her of Oswald’s love 
for Lucy? Did she not see all the signs of interest which for. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


32h 

merely he lavished on herself? Nay, to her eternal despair, did 
she not read in his eyes a more revering deference than he had 
ever shown to her ? Twice she drew the ring from her finger, 
and was ready to break through the crowd, that she might throw 
it at his feet : the hope of dying in this effort encouraged her 
resolution ; but where is the woman, even born beneath a south- 
ern sky, who does not tremble at attracting the attention of a 
crowd? She was returning to her coach; and as she crossed a 
somewhat deserted walk, Oswald again noticed the black figure he 
before had seen; and it now made a stronger impression on him 
than at first: he attributed his emotion to remorse, at having, 
for the first time, felt his heart faithless to the image of Corinne ; 
yet he resolved on starting for Scotland, as his regiment was not 
to embark for some time. 


CHAPTER VII. 

From this moment Corinne’s reason was affected, and her 
strength decayed. She began a letter to Lord Nevil, full of 
bitter upbraidings, and then tore it up. “ What avail reproaches ?” 
she thought : “ could love be the most pure, most generous of our 
sentiments, if it were not involuntary? Another face, another 
voice, command the secret of his heart : all is said that can be 
said.” She began a new letter, depicting the monotony he would 
find in a union with Lucy; essayed to prove that, without a 
perfect harmony of soul and mind, no happiness could last; but 
she destroyed this paper more hastily than the other. “ If he 
already knows not my opinions, I cannot teach him now,” she 
said; “ besides, ought I to speak thus of my sister? is she so 
greatly my inferior as I think ? and, if she be, is it for me, who, 
like a mother, pressed her in childhood to my heart, to point out 
her deficiencies ? no, no ! we must not thus value our own incli- 
nations above all price. This life, full as it is of wishes, must 
have an end; and, even before death, meditation may wean us from 
28 


326 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


its selfishness ” Once more she resumed her pen, to tell but of 
her misery; yet, in expressing it, she felt such pity for herself, 
that her tears flowed over every word. “No,” she said again, 
“ I cannot send this : if he resisted it, I should hate him ; if he 
yielded, how know I but it would be by a sacrifice ? even after 
which he would be haunted by the memory of another. I had 
better see him, speak with him, and return his ring.” She 
folded it in paper, on which she only wrote, “ You are free ;” 
and, putting it in her bosom, awaited the evening ere she could 
approach. In open day, she would have blushed before all she 
met; and yet she sought to anticipate the moment of his visit to 
Lady Edgarmond. At six o’clock, therefore, she set forth, 
trembling like a condemned criminal — we so much fear those we 
love, when once our confidence is lost. The object of a passionate 
affection is, in the eyes of woman, either her surest protector or 
most dreaded master. Corinne stopped her equipage at Lord 
Nevil’s door, and in a hesitating voice asked the porter if he was 
at home ; but the man replied : “ My Lord set out for Scotland 
half an hour ago, madam.” This intelligence pressed heavily on 
her heart : she had shrunk from the thought of meeting Oswald, 
but her soul had surmounted that inexpressible emotion. The 
effort was made : she believed herself about to hear his voice, 
and now must take some new resolution ere she could regain it ; 
wait some days longer, and stoop to one step more. Yet, at all 
hazards, she must see him again ; and the next day she departed 
for Scotland. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Ere quitting London, Nevil again called on his agents; and, 
on finding no letter from Corinne, bitterly asked himself if he 
ought to give up the certainty of permanent domestic peace for 
one, who, perhaps, no longer remembered him. Yet he decided 
on writing once more to inquire the cause of this silence, and 
assure her that, till she sent back his ring, he would never be the 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


'6ti 


husband of another. He completed his journey in a very gloomy 
mood, loving Lucy almost unconsciously; for he had, as yet, 
scarcely heard her speak twenty words — yet regretting Corinne, 
and the circumstances which separated him from her; by fits 
yielding to the innocent beauty of the one, and retracing the 
brilliant grace or sublime eloquence of the other. Had he but 
known that Corinne loved him better than ever, that she had 
quitted everything to follow him, he would never have seen Lucy 
more; but he believed himself forgotten, and told his heart that 
a cool manner might oft conceal deep feelings. He was deceived. 
Impassioned spirits must betray themselves a thousand ways : 
that which can always be controlled must needs be weak. 

Another event added to his interest in Lucy. In returning to 
his estates, he passed so near her mother’s, that curiosity urged 
him to visit it. He asked to be shown the room in which Miss 
Edgarmond usually studied ; it was filled by remembrances of 
the time his father had passed there during his own absence in 
France. On the spot where, a few months before his death, the 
late Lord Nevil had given her lessons, Lucy had erected a marble 
pedestal, on which was graven, “ To the memory of my second 
father.” A book lay on the table. Oswald opened it, and found 
a collection of his father’s thoughts, who in the first page had 
written : “ To her who has solaced me in my sorrows ; the maid 
whose angelic soul will constitute the glory and happiness of her 
husband.” With what emotion Oswald read these lines ! in 
which the opinion of the revered dead was so warmly expressed. 
He interpreted Lucy’s silence on this subject into a delicacy 
which feared to extort his vows by an idea of duty. “ It was 
she, then,” he cried, u who softened the pangs I dealt him ; and 
shall I desert her while her mother is dying, and she has no com- 
forter but myself? Ah, Corinne! brilliant and admired as thou 
art, thou dost not, like Lucy, stand in need of one devoted friend !” 
Alas ! she was no longer brilliant, no longer admired, wandering 
from town to town, without overtaking the being for whom she 
had lost all, and whom she could not forget. She was taken il 1 
at an inn, half-way between London and Edinburgh, and, it 


328 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


spite of all her efforts, unable to continue her journey. She 
often thought, during her long nights of suffering, that if she 
died there, none but Thérésina would know the name to inscribe 
upon her tomb. What a changed fate for the woman who could 
not leave her house in Italy without being followed by a host of 
worshippers? Why should one single feeling thus despoil a 
whole life ? After a week of intense agony, she resumed her 
route : so many painful fears mingled with the hope of seeing 
Oswald, that her expectation was but a sad anxiety. She designed 
to rest a few hours on her father’s land, where his tomb had been 
erected, never having been there since; indeed, she only spent 
one month on this estate with Lord Edgarmond, the happiest 
portion of her stay in England. These recollections inspired her 
with a wish to revisit their scene. She knew not that her step- 
mother was there already. Some miles from the house, perceiving 
that a carriage had been overturned, she stopped her own, and 
saw an old gentleman extricated from that which had broken 
down, much alarmed by the shock. Corinne hurried to his^ assist- 
ance, and offered him a share of her conveyance to the neighbor- 
ing town : he accepted it gratefully, announcing himself as Mi. 
Dickson : she remembered that Nevil had often mentioned that 
name, and directed the conversation to the only subject which, 
interested her in life. Mr. Dickson was the most willing gossip 
in the world ; and ignorant who his companion was, believed her 
an English lady, with no private interest in the questions she 
asked, therefore told her all he knew most minutely : her atten- 
tions had conciliated him ; and, in return, he trusted that his 
confidence might entertain her. He described how he had in- 
formed Lord Nevil of his parent’s wishes, and repeated an extract 
from the late Lord’s letter, often exclaiming: “He expressly 
forbade Oswald’s marriage with this Italian — and they cannot 
brave his will without insulting his memory.” Mr. Dickson 
added, that Oswald loved Lucy, was beloved by her ; that her 
mother strongly desired their union, but that this foreign engage- 
ment prevented it. “How!” said Corinne, striving to disguise 
her agitation : “do you think that the sole barrier to his happb 


CORINNE] OR, ITALY. 


829 




ness with Miss Edgarmond?” — “I am sure of it,” he answered, 
delighted with her inquiries. “ It is but three days since Lord 
Nevil said to me : ‘If I were free, I would marry Lucy/ — “ If 
he were free !” sighed Corinne. At that moment, the carriage 
Stopped at the hotel to which she had promised Mr. Dickson her 
escort. He thanked her, and begged to know where he might 
see her again. She wrung his hand, without power to speak, and 
left him. Late as it was, she resolved that evening to visit the 
grave of her father. The disorder of her mind rendered this 
sacred pilgrimage more necessary than ever. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Lady Edgarmond had been two days on her estate, where, 
that night, she had invited all her neighbors and tenants; and 
there was Oswald with Lucy, when Corinne arrived. She saw 
many carriages in the avenue; and alighted on the spot where 
her father had once treated her with such tenderness. What a 
contrast between those days, when she had thought herself so un- 
fortunate, and her present situation ! Thus are we punished for 
our fancied woes, by real calamities, which but too well teach us 
what true sorrow means. Corinne bade her servant ask the cause 
of all this light and bustle. A domestic replied : “ Lady Edgar- 
mond gives a ball to-night; which my master, Lord Nevil, has 
opened with the heiress.” Corinne shuddered; but a painful 
curiosity prompted her to approach the place where so much 
misery threatened her : and motioning for her people to withdraw, 
she entered the open gates alone; the obscurity permitted her to 
walk the park unseen. It was ten o’clock. Oswald had been 
Lucy’s partner in those English country dances, which they re- 
commence five or six times in the evening — the same- gentleman 
always dancing with the same lady, and the greatest gravity some- 
times reigning over this party of pleasure. Lucy danced nobly, 
but without vivacity. The feeling which absorbed her added to 
28 * 


330 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

her natural seriousness. As the whole country was inquisitive to 
know whether she loved Oswald, the unusually observant looks she 
met, prevented her ever raisiug her eyes to his ; and her embarrass- 
ment was such, that she could scarcely hear or see anything. 
This deeply affected him at first ; but as it never varied, he soon 
began to weary a little ; and compared this long range of men 
and women, and their monotonous music, with the animated airs 
and graceful dances of Italy. These reflections plunged him into 
a reverie; and Corinne might yet have tasted some moments of 
happiness could she have guessed his thoughts; but, like a 
stranger on her paternal soil, alone, though so near the man she 
had hoped to call her husband, she roved at hazard through the 
dark walks of grounds she once might have deemed her own. 
The earth seemed failing beneath her feet; and the fever of de- 
spair alone supplied her with strength : perhaps she might meet 
Oswald in the garden, she thought, though scarce knowing what 
she now desired. 

The mansion was built on an eminence ; a river ran at its base ; 
there were many trees on one bank; the other was formed of 
rocks, covered with briers. Corinne drew near the water, whose 
murmm blended with the distant music : the gay lamps were re- 
flected on its surface ; while the pale light of the moon alone ir- 
radiated the wilds on the opposite side. She thought of Hamlet, 
in which a spectre wanders round the festal palace. One step, 
and this forsaken woman might have found eternal oblivion. 
“ To-morrow,” she cried, “ when he strays here with a band of 
joyous friends, if his triumphant steps encountered the remains 
of her who was once so dear to him, would he not suffer something 
like what I bear now ? would not his grief avenge me ? yet, no, 
no! it is not vengeance I would seek in death, only repose.” 
Silently she contemplated this stream, flowing in rapid regularity ; 
fair nature ! better ordered than the human soul. She remembered 
the day on which Nevil had saved the drowning man. “ How 
good he was then !” she wept forth, “and may be still: why 
blame him for my woes? he may not guess them — perhaps if he 
could see me ” She determined, in the midst of\tkis fête, 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


331 


to demand a moment’s interview with Lord Nevil ; and walked 
towards the house, under the impulse of a newly adopted decision, 
which succeeds to long uncertainty; but as she approached it, 
such a tremor seized her, that she was obliged to sit down on a 
stone bench which faced the windows. The throng of rustics, 
assembled to look in upon the dancers, prevented her being seen. 
Oswald, at this moment, came to a balcony, to breathe the fresh 
evening air. Some roses that grew there reminded him of Co- 
rinDe’s favorite perfume, and he started. This long entertainment 
tired him, accustomed as he had been to her good taste and intel- 
ligence : and he felt that it was only in domestic life he could 
find pleasure with such a companion as Lucy. All that in the 
least degree belonged to the world of poetry and the fine arts 
bade him regret Corinne. While he was in this mood, a fellow- 
guest joined him, and his adorer once more heard him speak. 
What inexplicable sensations are awakened by the voice we love ! 
What a confusion of softness and of dread ! There are impres- 
sions of such force, that our poor feeble nature is terrified at it- 
self, while we experience them. 

“ Don’t you think this a charming ball ?” asked the gentleman. 
— ° Yes,” returned Oswald, abstractedly, “yes, indeed!” and he 
sighed. That sigh, that melancholy tone, thrilled Corinne’s 
heart with joy. She thought herself secure of regaining his, of 
again being understood by him, and rose, precipitately, to bid a 
servant call Lord Nevil; had she obeyed her inclination, how 
different had been the destiny of both ! But at that instant Lucy 
came to the window; and seeing through the darkness of the 
garden a female simply drest in white, her curiosity was kindled. 
She leaned forward, and gazed attentively, believing that she re- 
cognized the features of her sister, who, she thought, had been 
for seven years dead. The terror this sight caused her was so 
great that she fainted. Every one hastened to her aid ; Corinne 
could find no servant to bear her message, and withdrew into 
deeper shade, to avoid remark. 

Lucy dared not disclose what had alarmed her; but as her 
mother had, from infancy, instilled into her mind the strongest 


S3 2 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


sense of devotion, she was persuaded that the image of her sister 
had appeared, gliding before her to their father’s tomb, as if to 
reproach her for holding a fête in that scene ere she had fulfilled 
her sacred duty to his honored dust : as soon as she was secure 
from observation, she left the ball. Corinne, astonished at seeing 
her alone in the garden, imagined that Oswald would soon follow 
her, and that perhaps he had besought a private meeting to ob- 
tain her leave for naming his suit to her mother- This thought 
kept her motionless; but she saw that Lucy bent her steps to* 
wards a small grove, which she well knew must lead to Lord Ed- 
garmond’s grave; and, accusing herself of not having earliei 
borne thither her own regrets, followed her sister at some dis- 
tance, unseen. She soon perceived the black sarcophagus raised 
over the remains of their parent. Filial tenderness overpowered 
her; she supported herself against a tree. Lucy also paused, 
and bent her head respectfully. Corinne was ready to discover 
herself, and, in their father’s name, demand her rank and her 
betrothed; but the fair girl made a few hurried steps towards 
the tomb, and the victim’s courage failed. 

There is such timidity, even in the most impetuous female 
heart, that a trifle will restrain as a trifle çan excite it. Lucy 
knelt, removed the garland which had bound her hair, and raised 
her eyes to heaven with an angelic appeal : her face was softly 
illumined by the moonbeams, and Corinne’s heart melted with 
the purest generosity. She contemplated the chaste and pious 
expression of that almost childish visage, and remembered how 
she had watched over it in infancy : her own youth was waning, 
while Lucy had before her a long futurity, that ought not to be 
troubled by any recollections which she might shame at confes- 
sing, either before the world or to her own conscience. “ If I 
accost her,” thought Corinne, “that soul, so peaceful now, will 
be disturbed, perhaps, forever. I have already borne so much, that 
I can suffer on ; but the innocent Lucy would pass, in a moment 
from perfect calm to the most cruel agitation. Can I, who have 
lulled her to sleep on my bosom, hurl her into the ocean of grief?” 
Love still combated this disinterested elevation of mind, when 


833 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Lucy said aloud : u Pray for me, oh my father !” Corinne sunk 
on her knees, and mutely besought a paternal benediction on them 
both, with tears more stainless than those of love. Lucy audibly 
continued : “ Dear sister, intercede for me in heaven ! Friend of 
my childhood, protect me now !” How Corinne’s bosom yearned 
towards her, as Lucy, with added fervor, resumed ; u Pardon me, 
father, a brief forgetfulness, caused by the sentiment yourself 
commanded ! I am not, sure, to blame for loving him you chose 
to be my husband. Achieve your work ! Inspire him to select 
me as the partner of his life ! I shall never be happy, save with 
him ; but my fluttering heart shall not betray its secret. Oh, my 
God ! My father, console your child ! render her worthy the 
esteem of Oswald !” — “ Yes,” whispered Corinne, “ kind father, 
grant her prayer, and give your other child a peaceful grave !” 
Thus solemnly concluding the greatest effort of which her soul was 
capable, she took from her breast the paper which contained Os- 
wald’s ring, and rapidly withdrew. She felt that in sending this, 
without letting him know where she was, she should break all „ 
their ties, and yield him to her sister. In the presence of that 
tomb, she had been more conscious than ever of the obstacles 
which separated them : her own father, as well as Oswald’s, seemed 
to condemn their love. Lucy appeared deserving of him ; and 
Corinne, at least for the moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, 
that he might live at peace with his country, his family, and his 
own heart. The music which she heard from the house sustained 
her firmness : she saw an old blind man, seated at the foot of a 
tree to listen, and begged he would present her letter to one of 
the servants; thus she escaped the risk of Oswald’s discovering 
who had brought it; for no one could have seen her give the 
paper, without being assured that it contained the fate of her 
whole life. Her looks, her shaking hand, her hollow voice, be- 
spoke one cf those awful moments, when destiny overrules us, 
and we act but as the slaves of that fatality which so long pur- 
sued us. Corinne watched the old man, led by his faithful dog, 
give her letter to a servant of NeviPs, who, by chance, was carry- 
ing others into the house. All things conspired to banish her 


334 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


last hope : she made a few steps towards the gate, taming her 
head to mark the servant’s entrance. When she no longer saw 
him — when she was on the high road, the lights and music lost, 
a deathlike damp rose to her brow, a chill ran through her frame ; 
she tottered on, but nature refused the task, and she fell sense- 
less by the way. 


BOOK XVIII. 

THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

Count d’Erfeuil having passed some time in Switzerland, 
wearied of nature ’mid the Alps, as he had tired of the arts at 
Rome, and suddenly resolved to visit England. He had heard 
that he should find much depth of thought there, and woke one 
morning to the conviction of that being the very thing he wished 
to meet. This third search after pleasure had succeeded no better 
than its predecessors, but his regard for Nevil spurred him on ; 
and he assured himself, another morning, that friendship was the 
greatest bliss on earth ; therefore he went to Scotland. Not seeing 
Oswald at his home, but learning that he was gone to Lady Ed- 
garmond’s, the Count leaped on his horse to follow ; so much did 
he believe that he longed to meet him. As he rode quickly on, 
he saw a female extended motionless upon the road, and instantly 
dismounted to assist her. What was his horror at recognizing, 
through their mortal paleness, the features of Corinne ! With 
the liveliest sympathy he helped his servant to arrange some 
branches as a litter, intending to convey her to Lady Edgar- 
mond’s, when Thérésina, who till now had remained in heï 
mistress’s carriage, alarmed at her absence, came to the spot, 
and, certain that no one but Lord Nevil could have reduced heï 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


335 


lady to this state, begged that she might be borne to the neigh- 
boring town. The Count followed her; and for eight days, during 
which she suffered all the delirium of fever, he never left her. 
Thus it was the frivolous man who proved faithful, while the man 
of sentiment wa-s breaking her heart. This contrast struck Corinne, 
when she recovered her senses, and she thanked d’Erfeuil with 
great feeling : he replied by striving to console her, more capable 
of noble actions than of serious conversation. Corinne found him 
useful, but could not make him her friend.* She strove to recall 
her reason, and think over what had passed ; but it was long ere 
she could remember all she had done, and from what motive. 
Then, perhaps, she thought her sacrifice too great; and hoped, at 
least, to bid Lord Nevil a last adieu, ere she left England; but 
the day after she regained her faculties chance threw a newspaper 
in her way, which contained the following paragraph : — 

“ Lady Edgarmond has lately learned that her step-daughter, 
who she believed had died in Italy, is still enjoying great literary 
celebrity at Rome, under the name of Corinne. Her ladyship, 
much to her own honor, acknowledges the fair poet, and is 
desirous of sharing with her the fortune left by Lord Edgar- 
mond’s brother, who died in India. The marriage contract was 
yesterday signed, between his Lordship’s youngest daughter (the 
only child of his widow) and Lord Nevil, who, on Sunday next, 
leads Miss Lucy Edgarmond to the altar.” 

Unfortunately, Corinne lost not her consciousness after reading 
this announcement; a sudden change took place within her; all 
the interests of life were lost ; she felt like one condemned to 
death, who had not known, till now, when her sentence would be 
executed; and from this moment the resignation of despair was 
the only sensation of her breast. D’Erfeuil entered her room, 
and, finding her even paler than while in her swoon, anxiously 
asked her the news. She replied gravely : “I am no longer ill ; 
to-morrow is the Sabbath : I will go to Plymouth, and embark for 
Italy.” — “ I shall accompany you,” he ardently returned. “ I’ve 
nothing to detain me here, and shall be charmed at travelling 
with you.” — a How truly good you are !” she said : a we ought 


336 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


not to judge from appearances.” Then, after checking herself, 
added : “ I accept your guidance to the seaport, because I am not 
sure of my own ; but, once on board, the ship will bear me on, 
no matter in what state I may be.” She signed for him to leave 
her, and wept long before her God, begging him to support her 
beneath this sorrow. Nothing was left of the impetuous Corinne. 
The active powers of her life were all exhausted; and this anni- 
hilation, for which she could scarcely account, restored her com- 
posure. Grief had subdued her. Sooner or later all rebellious 
heads must bow to the same yoke. 

“It is to-day!” righed Corinne, as she woke: “it is to-day!” 
and entered her carriage with d’Erfeuil. He questioned her, but 
she could not reply. They passed a church : she asked his leave 
to enter for a moment ; then, kneeling before the altar, prayed 
for Oswald and for Lucy : but when she would have risen she 
staggered, and could not take one step without the support of Théré- 
sina and the Count, who had followed her. All present made way 
for her, with every demonstration of pity. “ I look very miser- 
able, then?” she said: “ the ypung and lovely, at this hour, are 
leaving such a scene in triumph.” The Count scarcely under» 
stood these words. Kind as he was, and much as he loved 
Corinne, he soon wearied of her sadness, and strove to draw 
her from it, as if we had only to say we will forget all woes of 
life, and do so. Sometimes he cried : “ I told you how it would 
be.” Strange mode of comforting; but such is the satisfaction 
which vanity tastes at the expense of misfortune. Corinne fruit- 
lessly strove to conceal her sufferings ; for we are ashamed of strong 
affections in the presence of the light-minded, and bashful in all 
feelings that must be explained ere comprehended — those secrets 
of the heart that can only be consoled by those who guess them, 
Corinne was displeased with herself, as not sufficiently grateful 
for the Count’s devotion to her service ; but in his looks, his words, 
his accents, there were so much which wandered in search of 
amusement, that she was often on the point of forgetting his 
generous actions, as he did himself. It is doubtless very mag- 
nanimous to set small price on our own good deeds, but that in- 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 387 

difference, so admirable in itself, may be oarried to an extreme 
which approaches an unfeeling levity. 

Corinne, during her delirium, had betrayed nearly all her 
secrets — the papers had since apprised d’Erfeuil of the rest. He 
often wished to talk of what he called her affairs , hut that word 
alone sufficed to freeze her confidence ; and she entreated him to 
spare her the pain of breathing Lord Nevil’s name. In part- 
ing with the Count, Corinne knew not how to express herself; 
for she was at once glad to anticipate being alone, and grieved to 
lose a man who had behaved so well towards her. She strove to 
thank him, but he begged her so naturally not to speak of it, that 
she obeyed : charging him to inform Lady Edgarmond that she 
refused the legacy of her uncle ; and to do so, as if she had sent 
this message from Italy ; for she did not wish her step-mother to 
know she had been in England. “Nor Nevil ?” asked the Count. 
“ You may tell him soon, yes, very soon ; my friends in Rome will 
let you know when.” — “ Take care of your health, at least,” he 
added: “don’t you know that / am uneasy about you?” — 
“ Really !” she exclaimed, smiling, “ not without cause, I believe.” 
He offered her his arm to the vessel : at that moment she turned 
towards England, the country she must never more behold, where 
dwelt the sole object of her love and grief, and her eyes filled with 
the first sad tears she had ever shed in d’Erfeuil’s presence. 
“ Lovely Corinne !” he said, “ forget that ingrate ! think of the 
friends so tenderly attached to you, and recollect your own ad- 
vantages with pleasure.” She withdrew her hand from him. and 
stepped back some paces; then blaming herself for this reproof, 
gently returned to bid him adieu : but he, having perceived 
nothing of what passed in her mind, got^nto the boat with her; 
recommended her earnestly to the captain’s care ; busied himself 
most endearingly on all the details that could render her passage 
agreeable : and, when rowed ashore, waved his handkerchief to 
the ship as long as he could be seen. Corinne returned his 
salute. Alas ! was this the friend on whose attentions she ought 
to have been thrown? Light loves last long; they are not tied 
29 


833 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


bo tight that they can break. They are obscured or brought to 
light by circumstances, while deep affections fly, never to return ; 
and in their places leave but cureless wounds. 


CHAPTER II. 

A favorable breeze bore Corinne to Leghorn in less than a 
month : she suffered from fever the whole time; and her debility 
was such that grief of mind was confused with the pain of 'illness ; 
nothing seemed now distinct. She hesitated, on landing, whether 
she should proceed to Rome, or no; but though her best friends 
awaited her, she felt an insurmountable repugnance to living in 
the scenes where she had known Oswald. She thought of that 
door through which he came to her twice every day; and the 
prospect of being there without him was too dreary She decided 
on going to Florence ; and believing that her life could not long 
resist her sorrows, thus intended to detach herself by degrees 
from the world, by living alone, far from those who loved her, 
from the city that witnessed her success, whose inhabitants would 
strive to reanimate her mind, expect her to appear what she had 
been, while her discouraged heart found every effort odious. In 
crossing fertile Tuscany, approaching flower-breathed Florence, 
Corinne felt but an added sadness. How dreadful the despair 
which such skies fail to calm ! One must feel either love or 
religion, in order to appreciate nature ; and she had lost the first 
of earthly blessings, without having yet recovered the peac^ 
which piety alone can afford the unfortunate. Tuscany, a well- 
cultivated, smiling land, strikes not the imagination as do the 
environs of Rome and Naples. The primitive institutions of its 
early inhabitants have been so effaced, that there scarcely remains 
one vestige of them ; but another species of historic beauty exists 
in their stead — cities that bear the impress of the Middle Ages. 
At Sienna, the public square wherein the people assembled, the 
balcony from which their magistrate harangued them, must catch 


« 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


339 


the least reflecting eye, as proofs that there once flourished a 
democratic government. It is a real pleasure to hear the Tus- 
cans, even of the lowest classes, speak : their fanciful phrases give 
one an idea of that Athenian Greek, which sounded like a per- 
petual melody. It is a strange sensation to believe one’s self 
amid a people all equally educated, all elegant ; such is the illu- 
sion which, for a moment, the purity of their language creates. 

The sight of Florence recalls its history, previous to the Medi- 
cean sway. The palaces of its best families are built like fort- 
resses : without, are still seen the iron rings, to which the stand- 
ards of each party were attached. All things seem to have been 
more arranged for the support of individual powers, than for their 
union in a common cause. The city appears formed for civil 
war. There are towers attached to the Hall of Justice, whence 
the approach of the enemy could be discerned. Such were the 
feuds between certain houses, that you find dwellings inconve- 
niently constructed, because their lords would not let them extend 
to the ground on which that of some foe bad been pulled down. 
Here the Pazzi conspired against the De Medici; there the 
Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines. The marks of struggling 
rivalry are everywhere visible, though but in senseless stones. 
Nothing is now left for any pretenders but an inglorious state, 
not worth disputing. The life led in Florence has become singu- 
larly monotonous : its natives walk every afternoon on the banks 
of the Arno, and every evening ask one another if they have been 
there. Corinne settled at a little distance from the town ; and 
let Prince Castel Forte know this, in the only letter she had 
strength to write : such was her horror of all habitual actions, 
that even the fatigue of giving the slightest order redoubled her 
distress. She sometimes passed her day in complete inactivity, 
retired to her pillow, rose again, opened a book, without the 
power to comprehend a line of it. Oft did she remain whole 
hours at her window ; then would walk rapidly in her garden, 
cull its flowers, and seek to deaden her senses in their perfume; 
but the consciousness of life pursued her, like an unrelenting 
^host: she strove in vain to calm the devouring faculty of 


840 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


thought, which no longer presented her with varied images ; but 
one lope idea, armed with a thousand stings, that pierced her 
heart. 


CHAPTER III. 

An hour passed in St. Peter’s had been wont to compose her ; 
and Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visiting the 
churches of fair Florence. She walked beneath the fine trees of 
the river’s bank, in a lovely eve of June. Roses embalmed the 
aiT, and every Tace expressed the general felicity from which she 
felt herself excluded ; yet she unenvyingly blessed her God for 
his kind care of man. “ I am an exception to universal order,” 
she said ; “ there is happiness for every one but me : this power 
o f suffering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself. My 
God ! wherefore was I selected for such a doom ? May I not say, 
like thy Divine Son, 1 Father, let this cup be taken from me V ” 
The active air of the inhabitants astonished her : since she had 
lost all interest in life, she knew not why others seemed occupied ; 
and, slowly pacing the large stoned pavement of Florence, she 
forgot where she had designed to go. At last, she found her- 
self before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti, for 
the front of St. John’s, which stands beside the cathedral. For 
some time she examined this stupendous work ; where, wrought 
in bronze, the divers nations, though of minute proportions, are 
distinctly marked by their varied physiognomies; all of which 
express some thought of their artist. “ What patience !” cried 
Corinne; “what respect for posterity! yet how few scrutinize 
these doors, through which so many daily pass, in heedlessness, 
ignorance, or disdain ! How difficult it is to escape oblivion ! how 
vast the power of death !” 

In this cathedral was Julian de Medicis assassinated. Not far 
thence, in the church of St. Lorenzo, is shown the marble chapel, 
enriched with precious stones, where rise the tombs of that high 
family, and Michael Angelo’s statues of Julian and Lorenzo : the 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


341 


latter, meditating veDgeance on the murder of his brother, deserves 
the honor of having been called u la pensée de Michel Angelo l” 
At the feet of these figures are Aurora and Night. The awaking 
of the one is admirable; still more so is the other’s sleep. A 
poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying : “ Sound as 
is her slumber, she lives : if you believe not, wake her, she will 
speak.” Angelo, who cultivated letters (without which imagina- 
tion of all kinds must soon decay) replied : — 

“ Grato m’è il sono, e pih 1’esser di sasso. 

Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura, 

Non voder, non sentir m’è gran ventura, 

Perô non mi destar, deli parla basso !” 

“It is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while shame 
and injustice last: not to see, not to hear, is a great blessing; 
therefore disturb me not ! speak low !” 

This great man was the only comparatively modern sculptor 
who neither gave the human figure the beauty of the antique nor 
the affected air of our own day. You see the grave energy of the 
Middle Ages — its perseverance, its passions, but no ideal beauty. 
He was the genius of his own school ; and imitated no one, not 
even the ancients. This tomb is in the church of Santa Croce. 
At his desire, it faces a window whence may be seen the dome 
built by Filippo Brunelleschi : as if his ashes would stir, even 
beneath the marble, at the sight of a cupola copied from that of 
St. Peter’s. Santa Croce contains some of the most illustrious 
dead in Europe. Galileo, persecuted by man, for having dis- 
covered the secrets of the sky — Machiavel, who revealed the arts 
of crime rather as an observer than an actor; yet whose lessons 
are more available to the oppressors than the oppressed Aretino, 
who consecrated his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in 
life except its end — Boccaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the 
united scourges of civil war and plague — a picture in honor of 
Dante, showing that the Florentines, who permitted him to perish 
in exile, were not the less vain of his glory, (34) with many other 
worthy names, and some celebrated in their own day, but echoing 
29 * 


<*42 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

less forcibly from age to age, so that their sound is now almost 
unheard. (35) This church, adorned with noble recollections, 
rekindled the enthusiasm of Corinne, which the living had 
repressed. The silent presence of the great revived, for a 
moment, that emulation which once she felt for fame. She 
stepped more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days 
arose within her breast. Some young priests came slowly down 
the aisle, chanting in subdued tones : she asked the meaning of 
this ceremony. “We are praying for our dead,” said one of 

them. “ Right,” thought Corinne ; “your dead! well may you 
boast them ; they are the only noble relics left ye. Ah ! why 

then, Oswald, have you stifled all the gifts Heaven granted me, 
with which I ought to excite the sympathy of kindred minds ? 

0 God !” she added, sinking on her knees, “ it is not in vanity 

1 dare entreat thee to give me back my talents : doubtless the 
lowly saints who lived and died for thee alone are greatest in thy 
sight ; but there are different careers for mortals : genius, which 
illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes itself to generous humanity 
and truth, may trust to be received in some outer heaven.” She 
cast her eyes to earth, and, on the stone where she had knelt, 
read this inscription : — 

“Alone I rose, alone I sank, I am alone e’en here.* 

“ Ah !” cried Corinne, “ that is mine answer. What should em- 
bolden me to toil ? what pride can I ever feel ? who would parti- 
cipate in my success, or interest himself in my defeats ? Oh, I 
should need his look for my reward.” Another epitaph fixed her 
attention, that of a youth, who says: — 

“Pity me not, if you can guess how many pangs the grave hath 
spared me.” 

How did those words wean her from life ! amid the tumult of a 
city, this church opened to teach mankind the best of secrets, if 
they would learn : but no; they passed it by, and the miracubus 
forgetfulness of death kept all the world alive. 


CORINNE; OR, ITAM, 


343 


CHAPTER IV. 

The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a few 
moments, led her next morning to the Gallery: she hoped to 
recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from her former pur- 
suits. Even the fine arts are republican in Florence. Pictures 
and statues are shown at all hours, with the greatest ease. Well- 
informed men, paid by the government, like public functionaries, 
explain all these chef s-d’ oeuvre. This lingering respect for talent 
has ever pervaded Italy; particularly Florence, where the Medicii 
extorted pardon for their power over human actions, by the free 
scope they left for human minds. The common people love the 
arts, and blend this taste with their devotiom which is more reo-u- 
lar in Tuscany than in any other Italian state; but they frequently 
confound mythologie figures with Scripture history. One of the 
guides used to show a Minerva as Judith, and an Apollo as David ; 
adding, when he explained a bas-relief which represented the fall 
of Troy, that “ Cassandra was a good Christian.” Many days 
may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are known. 
Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at her own indif- 
ference and abstraction. The calm dignity which shines through 
the deep grief of Niobe, however, recalled her attention. In such 
a case, the countenance of a living mother would doubtless be 
more agitated; but the ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair; 
and what affects us most in works of genius, is not griefs self, 
but the soul’s power o’er grief. Not far from this is a head of the 
dying Alexander. These two countenances afford rich material 
for thought. The conqueror looks astonished and indignant at 
not having achieved a victory even over nature. The angnish of 
maternal love is depicted on all the traits of Niobe : she presses 
her daughter to her heart with the most touching eagerness ; her 
fine face bearing the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients 
no resource, even in religion. Niobe lifts her eyes to heaven, 
but without hope ; for the gods themselves are her enemies. 

On her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on w.hat she had 


344 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had formerly done ; but 
her mental distraction was uncontrollable. How far was she now 
from the power of improvisation ! In vain she sought for words, 
or wrote unmeaning ones, that dismayed her on perusal, as would 
the ravings of delirium. Incapable of turning her thoughts from 
her own situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer 
could she command those universal sentiments that find echoes in 
all hearts. Hers were now but long unvaried wailings, like the 
cry of the night bird ; her expressions were too impetuous, too 
unveiled — they were those of misery, not of talent. To write 
well, we require to feel truly, but not heart-breakingly. The best 
melancholy poetry is that inspired by a kind of rapture, which 
still tells of mental strength and enjoyment. Real grief is a foe 
to intellectual fertility : it produces a gloomy agitation, that inces- 
santly returns to the same point, like the knight who, pursued by 
an evil genius, sought a thousand roads for escape, yet always 
found himself at the spot from whence he started. 

The state of Corinne’s health completed the confusion of her 
mind. The following are a few of the reflections she wrote, 
while making a fruitless effort to become capable of a connected 
work. 


CHAPTER V. 

FRAGMENTS OF CORINNE’S THOUGHTS. 

My genius lives no longer : I regret 
Its death : I own I should have loved that yet 
My lays had waked his sympathy ; my name 
Might still have reach’d him, heralded by fame. 

I err’d by hoping that in his own land 

The thoughts, the feelings — that our fate united — 
The influence of habit could withstand — 

Amid suoh scenes love’s flower must soon be blighted, 


345 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

There is so much to say ’gainst maid like me ! 

How futile must the only answer be ! 

“Such was her heart — her mind;” a poor reply 
For hosts who know not what I was, nor why. 

Yet are they wrong to fear superior mind, 

The more it towers, more morally refined : 

The more we know, the better we forgive ; 

Whoe’er feels deeply, feels for all who live. 

How can two beings who confided all, 

Whose converse was the spirit’s griefs, its dangers, 
And immortality, bear this swift fall, 

Thus to each other become once more strangers ? 

What a mysterious sentiment is love! 

Nothing, if not all other ties above — 

Vying in faith with all that martyrs feel — 

Or — colder than the simplest friendship’s zeal. 

This most involuntary sense on earth. 

Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth? 

What storms it raises deep within the breast! 

Must we obey, or combat such wild guest? 

Talent should be a refuge; as when one* 
Imprison’d to a cloister, art’s true son, 

Bequeath’d its walls such traces of his doom. 

That genius glorified monastic gloom! 

But he, though captive, suffer’d from without; 

His bosom was not torn by dread or doubt; 

When grief is there, all efforts lose their force, 

The spring of comfort’s poison’d from its source. 

Sometimes I view* myself as one apart, 

Impartially, and pity my own heart; 

Was I not mental, kind to others’ pain, 

Generous, and frank? Then why all this in vain? 
Is the world really so vile, that charms 
Like these but rob us of our needful arms? 


* Domenichino. 


316 


CORINNE; OR, ITALT. 

’T is pitiful! Spite all my youth hath shown. 

Despite my glory, I shall die unknown ; 

Nor leave one proof of what I might have been. 

Had I learnt happiness, or could defy 
This all-devouring fever — men had seen 
Me contemplate them from a station high. 

Tracking the hidden links between yon heaven 
And human nature; but the clue is riven. 

How, how think freely, while each painful breath 

But bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death? 

Oh! why would he forbear to render blest 
A heart whose secret he alone possess’d? 

To him — him only spoke my inmost soul! 

’Tis easy to leave those chance may control, 

The common herd — but she who must admire, 

Yet judge ere fancy kindles love’s chaste fire, 

Expansive as it is, to soul like hers, 

There’s but one object in the universe! 

I learnt life from the poets; ’tis not thus; 

Vainly they strive to change the truth, for us 
Who live to wake from their soft dreams, and see 
The barrenness of life’s reality! 

Remembering what I was but chafes my pride. 

Why tell me I could charm, if not for love? 

Why inspire confidence, to make me prove 
But the more fearful anguish when it died? 

Will he, in any other, meet more mind 

Than was my own? a heart mcrè true and kind? 

No! but — congenial with heartlessness — 

He will be more content in finding less. 

In presence of the sun, or starry spheres, 

To deserve love we need but to desire — 

For love ennobles all that it endears; 

Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher. 

But ah, society! where each must owe 
His fate but to factitious joy or woe — 

Where what is said of him becomes the test — 

How soon it hardens e’en the trifler’s breast. 


34 ? 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

r 

Could men once meet, free from this false control, 
How pure an air were breathed into the soul! 
How would the mind, refresh’d by feelings true, 
Teem with ideas natural and new! 

E’en Nature’s cruel; this praised face 
Is fading: what avails it now 
That still I pour affection’s vow, 

Without one look my prayer to grace? 

These tear-dimm’d eyes no more expreae. 

As once they might, my tenderness. 

Within my bosom is a pain 
No language ever can explain — 

I have no strength for task like this; 

Love, only love, could sound the abyss. 

How happy men! in honor’s strife 
They burst the chains of hated life. 

We hope no solace from the throng; 

Our torture is to bear, 

Stirless and mute, a lone life long, 

The presence of Despair. 

Sometimes, when listing music’s tone. 

It tells of powers so late mine own, 

Song, dance, and poesie — I start, 

As I could fly from this sad heart, 

To joy again; a sudden chill 

Reminds me that the world would say, 

“Back, lingering ghost! it fits thee ill 
To brave the living, and the day!” 

I wish I now could find a spell 
’Gainst misery in the crowd : ’t was well 
To mix there once, lest solitude 

Should bear my thoughts too far through f&tg. 
My mind grew flexible, imbued 

With gay impressions; ’t is too late; 

Features and feelings fix for aye: 

Smiles, fancies, graces! where are they? 

Ah! if ’twere in a moment o’er, 

Fain would I taste of hope once more! 


348 


CORINNE; OR, ITA1® 


But all is done: life can but b® 

A burning desert now to me; 

The drop of water, like the river. 

Sullied with bitterness forever, 

A single day’s enjoyment is 
Impossible, as years of bliss, 

Guilty towards me- as I must deem 
My love — compared with other mea 
What mindless things of art they seem? 

How does he rise an angel then ! — 

E’en though his sword of flame consuma 
My life, and devastate my doom; 

Heaven lends the one beloved his power 
Thus to avenge each misspent hour. 

*Tis not first love that must endure; 
v It springs but from the dreams of youth ; 
But if, with intellect mature, 

We meet the mind long sought in vain, 
Fancy is then subdued by truth, 

And we have reason to complain. 

“ What maniacs !” the many cry, 

“Are those for love who live or die! 

As if, when such frail boon is reft, 

A thousand blessings were not left I” 

Enthusiasm, though the feed 
Of every high heroic deed, 

Each pious sacrifice — its lot 
Is scorn, from those who feel it not, 

All then is folly, if they will, 

Save their own selfish care 
Of mortal life; this nobler thrill 
Is madness everywhere. 

Alas! it is my worst distress 
That he alone my thoughts could guess i 
Too late and vainly may he find 
That I alone could read hit mind. 


349 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

Mine own should thus be understood; 

In friendship’s varying degrees 
Easy, yet difficult to please: 

With cordial hours for all the good, 

But with affection deep and trus, 

Which but for one , for him I knew. 

Feeling and fancy, wit and reason, 

Where now such union can I find, 

Seek the world through — save his — whose treason 
’Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald’s mind 
Blends all these charms; unless I dream’d 
He was the wonder he but seem’d. 

How, then, to others should I speak? 

In whom confide? what subjects seek? 

What end, aim, interest remains? 

The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains, 

Already known, what should I fear? 

Or what expect? before me cast 
A future changeless, wan, and drear. 

As but the spectre of my past! 

Why, why is happiness so brief? 

Life’s weeds so strong, its flowers so frail? 

Is nature’s natural order grief? 

Unwonted pain soon finds relief 

When its strange throes our frames assail — 

Joy to the soul’s less usual: there ^ 

The habitual state is this despair. 

How mutable the world appears 

Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears! * 

Another life! another life 

That is my hope! but still such force 
Hath this we bear, that we demand 
In heaven the same rebellious band 
Of passions that here caused our strife. 

The northern zealots paint the shade 
Still hunting, with his hound and horse, 

The phantom stag, through cloudy glade; 

* •« Ahi! null’ altro che pianto al mondo dura.” — Petrabch. 

30 


850 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Yet dare we call such shapes unreal? 

Naught here is sure save that Distress 
Whose power all suffer who can feel— 

Keeps her unpitying promises! 

I dream of immortality! 

No more of that which man can give; 

Once in the future did I live, 

The present seem’d too old for me.* 

All I now ask of Him on high, 

Is, that my heart may never die! 

Father! the offering and the shrine 
A mortal spurns; with grace divine, 

Deign to receive — ’tis thine ! — ’tis thine ! 

I know my days will be but few; 

That thought restores a sense of rest: 

’Tis sweet to feel, as now I do, 

Death draw Grief’s barb from out my breast. 

’Tis Superstition’s sad retreat, 

More than the home of pious trust; 

Devotion to the blest is sweet. — 

What gratitude to the All Just 

Ought Oswald’s wife to feel! 0 God, she must. 

And yet misfortune oft improves, 

Corrects us, teaches us to weigh 
Our errors with our sufferings: they 
Are wedded: we repent the loves 
Of earth, when salutary time 
And solitude inspires love more sublime. 

’Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil 
A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil still : — 
What innocence is in the thoughts of those 
About to leave this life of passion’s woes! 

The secret which not genius’ self can share, 

The enigma, may it be reveal’d to prayer? 

May not some simple thought, by reverie 
Full oft approach’d, disclose the mystery ? 


* That idea is Dante’s. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


351 


Vast as the efforts which the soul may make 
They weary her in vain ; she cannot take 
This latest step ; life must be still unknown 
Till its last hour on earth be well-nigh flown ! 

’Jis time mine should repose ; and who will sigh — 
’Tis still, at last, the heart that beat so high ! 


CHAPTER YI. 

Prince Castel Forte quitted Rome, to settle near Corinne. 
She felt most grateful for this proof of friendship, and yet 
ashamed that she could not requite it, even by such conversation 
as of yore : now she was silent and abstracted ; her failing health 
robbed her of all the strength required, even for a momentary 
triumph over her absorbing griefs. That interest, which the 
heart's courtesy inspires, she could still at times evince ; but her 
desire to please was lost forever. Unhappy love freezes all our 
affections : our* own souls grow inexplicable to us. More than 
we gained while we were happy, we lose by the reverse. That 
added life which made us enjoy nature, lent an enchantment to 
our intercourse with society; but the heart's vast hope once lost, 
existence is impoverished, and all spontaneous impulses are para- 
lyzed. Therefore, a thousand duties command women, and men 
still more, to respect and fear the passion they awaken, since it 
may devastate the mind as well as the heart. 

Sometimes Castel Forte might speak for several minutes to 
Corinne without a reply, because she neither understood nor even 
heard him. When she did, her answers had none of that glowing 
animation once so remarkable ; they merely dragged on the dia- 
logue for a few seconds, and then she relapsed into silence. Some- 
times, as she had done at Naples, she would smile in pity over 
her own failures. The amiable prince humored her on all her 
favorite topics. She would thank him, by pressing his hand, and 
once, after a walk on the banks of the Arno, began to jest with 
her accustomed grace: he gazed, and listened in glad surprise; 


352 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


but she abruptly broke off, and rushed from the room in tears. 
On returning, she said, gently : “ Pardon me, my generous friend; 
I would fain make myself agreeable; it will not be : bear with me 
as I am.” What most distressed him, was the shock her consti- 
tution had received : no immediate danger threatened her, yet it 
was impossible that she could live long, unless she regained some 
vigor. If she endeavored to speak on aught that concerned the 
soul, her wan tremor was painful to behold; and he strove to 
divert her from this strain. He ventured to talk of Oswald, 
and found that she took a perverse pleasure in the subject ; but 
it left her so shaken, that he was obliged to interdict it. Castel 
Forte was a susceptible being : but not even the most magnanimous 
of men knows how to console the woman he has loved under the 
pangs thus inflicted by another. Some little self-love on his side, 
must aid her timidity, in preventing perfect confidence. Besides, 
what would it avail ? It can only be of service to those wounds 
which would cure themselves without it. 

At this time the prince received a letter from Lord Nevil, 
replete with professions, which would have deeply affected Co- 
rinne : he mused for hours together on the propriety of showing 
it to her; but anticipating the violence of its effects on a creature 
so feeble, he forbore Even while he was thus deliberating, 
another letter reached him, announcing his Lordship’s departure 
for America. Castel Forte then decided on saying nothing to 
Corinne. Perhaps he erred: one of her greatest griefs was 
Nevil’s silence; she scarce dared own it to herself: but though 
forever separated from him, one recollection, one regret, would 
have been very precious to her: as it was, he gave her, she 
thought, no opportunity of hearing his name, left her no excuse 
for breathing it. The sorrow, of which no one speaks to us, which 
gains no change from time, cuts deeper than reiterated blows ; the 
good prince followed the usual maxim, which bids us do our ut- 
most towards teaching a mourner to forget ; but there is no ob- 
livion for the imaginative: it were better to keep alive their 
memories, weary them of their tears, exhaust their sighs, and 
force them back upon themselves, that they may reconcentrate 
their own powers 


CORINNEj OR, ITALY. 


358 


BOOK SIS. 

OSWALD’S RETURN TO ITALY. 

CHAPTER I. 

Let us now return to the events which occurred in Scotland, 
after the sad fete at which Corinne made her self-sacrifice. Lord 
Nevil’s servant carried his letters to the ball-room. Oswald 
retired to read them. He opened several which bis agent had 
sent from London, little guessing that among them was one which 
would decide his fate; but when he beheld the writing of Corinne, 
and saw the ring, the words — " You are free !” — he felt at once 
the most cruel grief and the most furious irritation. He had not 
heard from her for two months, and now her silence was broken 
by this laconic decision. He remembered what Lady Edgarmond 
had said of her instability, and entered into all the step-dame's 
feeling against her; for he still loved enough to be unjust; forget- 
ting how long he had renounced the idea of marrying her, how 
much Lucy had pleased him, he looked on himself as the blame- 
less victim of an inconstant woman ; perplexity and despair beset 
him ; but over them both towered his proud soul, prompting him 
to rise superior to his wronger. This boasted pride rarely exists 
unless self-love predominates over affection. Had Nevil now 
valued Corinne as in their days at Rome and Naples, not all his 
« wrongs supposed” could have torn her from his heart. 

Lady Edgarmond detected his distress. The fatal malady be- 
neath which she labored increased her ardent interest in her 
daughter. She knew the poor child’s heart, and feared that she 
had compromised her happiness forever; therefore, she seldom 
lost sight of Nevil, but read his secrets with that discernment 
■which is deemed peculiar to our sex, but which belongs solely to 
the continual observance which a real interest teaches us. On 
the pretext of transferring Corinne's inheritance, she besought 
30 * 


354 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


Lord Nevil’s company next morning, and shortly guessed that 
he was much dissatisfied; she flattered his resentment by the 
prospect of a noble vengeance, offering to recognize her husband’s 
daughter. This sudden change amazed him ; yet though its con- 
dition was unexplained, he comprehended it; and, in one of those 
moments in which we act more quickly than we can think, de- 
manded Lucy’s hand. Her mother, scarcely able to restrain her 
joy, so as not to say yes too hastily, consented ; and he left her 
presence, bound by an engagement, which, when he made it, 
he had not dreamed of undertaking. While Lady Edgarmond 
prepared Lucy to receive him, he paced the garden in violent 
agitation, telling himself that she had merely pleased him, be- 
cause he knew little of her, and that it was madness to found the 
happiness of his life on the charm of a mystery that must inevi- 
tably be dissipated. He then retraced his letters to Corinne, too 
plainly showing his internal struggles. “ She’s right !” he 
sighed: “I have not the courage fit to make her blest; but yet 

it should have cost her more to lose me — that cold brief line 

yet who knows but her tears might have fallen on it !” His own 
burst forth in spite of him. These reveries hurried him on un- 
consciously so far, that he was long sought in vain by the servant, 
sent to tell him that Lady Edgarmond desired his return. As- 
tonished at his own lack of eagerness, he obeyed. On re-entering 
the drawing-room, he found Lucy kneeling, her head reclined on 
the bosom of her parent, with a most touching grace As she 
heard his footsteps, she raised her flowing eyes, and, extending 
her hand to him, said simply: “My Lord, I know you will not 
separate me from my mother.” This innocent manner of an- 
nouncing her consent much interested Oswald, who, sinking on 
his knees, besought Lady Edgarmond’s permission to imprint on 
that blushing forehead the first kiss which had ever awakened 
more than childlike emotions in the breast whose beauty less 
enchanted him than did its celestial modesty. The days which 
preceded that chosen for their marriage were spent in the needful 
arrangements. Lucy spoke more than usual; but alj she said 
was so nobly natural, that Oswald loved and approved her every 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


355 


word, and yet he felt a void beside her. Their conversation con- 
sisted but of questions and answers; she neither started nor pro- 
longed any subject: all went well: but without that exhaustlesa 
animation with which it is so difficult for those who have once en- 
joyed it to dispense. Lord Nevil thought of Corinne; but, as he 
no longer heard her named, hoped that her image would at last 
become merely an object of his vague regret. When Lucy learned 
from her mother that her sister still lived in Italy, she much 
wished to talk of her with Oswald, but Lady Edgarmond for- 
bade; and the girl, habitually submissive, asked not the reason 
of this prohibition. On the morning of his marriage, the hapless 
Corinne haunted Nevil fearfully; but he addressed his father’s 
spirit, confessing that it was to win his heavenly benediction, his 
son accomplished thus his will on earth. Reassured by those 
meditations, he sought his bride, reproaching himself for having 
allowed his thoughts to wander from her. A descending angel 
could not have chosen a face more fit than hers to give mortality 
a dream of heavenly virtue. At the altar, Lady Edgarmond was 
even more agitated than her daughter; for all-important steps 
alarm us the more, the greater our experience. Lucy was all 
hope ; childhood still mingled with her youth, and blended joy 
with love. In leaving the church she leaned timidly on Oswald’s 
arm, as if to assure herself of his protection : he looked on hei 
tenderly, feeling, at the bottom of his heart, a foe who menaced 
her repose, and from whom he had promised to defend her. 
Lady Edgarmond, on their return, said to her son-in-law : “ My 
mind is easy. I have confided to you the happiness of my 
daughter ; and have so short a time to live, that it is a comfort 
for me to think my place will be so well supplied.” Lord Nevil 
was much affected by these words, and anxiously mused on the 
duties they imposed. A few days elapsed : Lucy had begun to 
meet her husband’s eye with confidence, and make her mind 
known to him, when unlucky incidents disturbed the union 
commenced under these favorablé auspices. 


356 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


CHAPTER II. 

Mr. Dickson paid his respects to the young couple, apologiz* 
ing for not having been present at their marriage. He had been 
ill, he said, from the effects of a fall, though kindly assisted by 
the most charming woman in the world. Oswald, at this moment, 
was playing battledore and shuttlecock with Lucy, who was very 
graceful at this exercise. Her bridegroom gazed on her, and 
listened not to Mr. Dickson, who, at last, called to him from the 
other end of the room. “ My Lord, the fair unknown, who came 
to my aid, had certainly heard much about you, for she asked me 
many questions concerning your fate/' — “ Whom do you mean ?” 
said Nevil, continuing his game. — “ A lovely creature, my Lord, 
although she looked changed by suffering, and could not speak of 
you without emotion.” * These words attracted Oswald’s atten- 
tion; but Lucy, perfectly unconcerned, joined her mother, who 
ha ( d just sent for her. Lord Nevil now asked Mr. Dickson what 
lady it was who had thus spoken of him. “ I know not,” he re- 
plied: “her accent proved her English, though I have rarely 
found so obliging and easy a person among our countrywomen. 
She took as much care of a poor old man like me as if she had 
been my own child : while I was beside her, I did not feel my 
bruises; but, my dear Oswald, have you been faithless here 
as well as in Italy? My beauteous benefactress trembled aud 
turned pale at naming you.” — “ Just heaven !” exclaimed Nevil, 
“ you said an Englishwoman ?” — “ Oh yes : you know foreigners 
never pronounce our language without a certain intonation.” — 
“And her face?” — “The most expressive I ever saw, though 
fearfully pale and thin.” This description suited not the bright 
Corinne; yet might she not have suffered much, if in England, 
and unable to find the being she sought? This dread fell sud- 

* Even had not Mr. Dickson been aware of Oswald’s circumstances, 
such a speech before his bride would have been bad enough. It is un« 
pardonable, as he knew so much. — Tu. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


35T 


demly on Oswald, who continued his questions with extreme un- 
easiness. Mr. Dickson replied that the lady conversed with an 
elegance which he had never before met, that the gentlest kind- 
ness spoke from her sad and languid eyes. “ Did you notice their 
color ?” asked Oswald. — “ Magnificently dark I” The catechist- 
trembled. “From time to time,” continued Mr. Dickson, “she 
interrogated, or answered, me, and what she did say was delight- 
ful.” He would have proceeded, but Lady Nevil, with her mother, 
rejoined them; and Oswald hastily retired, hoping soon again to 
find Mr. Dickson alone. Struck by his sadness, Lady Edgarmond 
sent Lucy away, that she might inquire its cause : her guest 
simply repeated what had passed. Terrified at anticipating the 
despair of Oswald, if he were assured that Corinne had followed 
him to Scotland; foreseeing, too, that he would resume this topic, 
she instructed Mr. Dickson as to what she wished said to her 
son-in-law. Thus, the old gentleman only increased the auxiety 
it was too late to remove. Oswald now asked his servant if all 
the letters sent him within the last three weeks had come by 
post.* The man “ believed they had,” and was leaving the room ; 
but, turning back, added, “ I remember that, on the ball night, 
a blind man gave me one for your Lordship. I supposed it a 
petition for charity.” — “ I received none such : could you find this 
man?” — “Yes, my Lord, directly; he lives in the village.” — “Go, 
bring him to me!” said Nevil; and, unable to wait patiently, 
walked out to meet him at the end of the avenue. “So, my 
friend,” he said, “ you brought a letter here for me, on the evening 
of the ball : who gave it to you ?” — “ My Lord, ye see Fra blind • 
how wad I ken?’” — “Do you think it was a female?” — “Ech 
fine that, my Lord ! for I hard weel eneuch that she was vera 
soft voiced, though I jaloused the while that she was greeting.” 

« And what did she say to you ?” — “ Oh, sir, she said, 1 Gude 

auld man, gide this to Oswald’s servant,’ and there stopped, but 
syne she added, <1 mean Lord Nevil’s.’ ” — “Ah, Corinne!’ 

* I wonder he had not observed that Corinne’s bore no post-mark. - 

T*. 


358 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


exclaimed Oswald, and grew so faint that he was forced to sup» 
port himself on the poor creature’s arm, who continued; “1 was 
sitting under a tree just, and wished to do the leddy’s bidding 
diract, but could scarce raise mysel, being auld the noo : weel, 
after giein me mair siller than I’d had for lang, she was that free she 
lent me her hand, puir thing ! it trembled just as your Lordship’s 
does this minute.” — “ Enough!” sighed Nevil. “Here, my 
good friend, as she gave you money, let me do so too; go, and 
pray for us both !” He withdrew. 

From this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his mind : he 
made a thousand useless inquiries, unable to conceive the possibi- 
lity of Corinne’s having been in Scotland without seeking him. 
He formed various conjectures as to her motives ; and, in spite of 
all his endeavors to conceal it, this affliction wa u evident to Lady 
Edgarmond, nay, even to Lucy. All was constraint and silence. 
At this time Oswald wrote first to Castel Forte. Had Corinne 
read that letter, it would much have softened her resentment. 

Count d’Erfeuil joined the Nevils ere the Prince’s reply ar- 
rived. He said no more of Corinne than was necessary, yet felt 
vexed at their not perceiving that he had an important secret in 
his power, though too discreet to betray it. His insinuations at 
first took no effect upon Oswald ; but, when he detected that they 
referred to Corinne, he was all curiosity. The Count having 
brought him to this, defended his own trust pretty bravely ; at 
last, however, his friend drew forth the whole truth. It was a 
pleasure for d’Erfeuil to relate how grateful Corinne had felt, and 
in what a wretched state he had found her ; he ran on, without 
observing how he agonized Lord Nevil ; his only object was that 
of being the hero of his own story; when he had ceased, he was 
much afflicted at the mischief he had done. Oswald had com- 
manded himself till then, but suddenly became distracted with 
regret ; accused himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of 
men ; raved of Corinne’s devoted tenderness : her generosity at 
the very moment when she believed him most culpable. He con- 
trasted this with the heartless fickleness by which he had 
requited her ; incessautly repeating that no one ever loved him as 


359 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

ghe did; and that he should in some way be ultimately punished 
for his cruelty. He would have set forth to see her, if only for a 
day, an hour ; but Rome and Florence were already occupied by the 
French : his regiment was about to embark ; he could not forfeit 
his own honor, nor break the heart of his wife : indeed, no faults 
he might now commit could repair the past ; they would but add to 
the misery he had occasioned. The only hope that calmed him 
was derived from the dangers he was about to brave. In this mood 
he wrote again to Castel Forte, whose replies represented Corinne 
as sad, but resigned ; his pride in her softened rather than exagge- 
rated the truth. Oswald believed that he ought not to torture her 
by his regrets, after having so wronged her by his love — and left 
Britain with a sense of remorse which nearly rendered life insup- 
portable. 


CHAPTER III. 

Lucy was afflicted by his departure ; yet his recent gloom had 
so increased her natural timidity, that she had never found courage 
to confide in him her hopes of becoming a mother ; but left it for 
Lady Edgarmond to send these tidings after him. Nevil, unable 
to guess what passed in his wife’s heart, had thought her farewell 
cold ; compared her silent submission with the eloquence of Co- 
rinne, and hesitated not to believe that Lucy loved him but feebly; 
yet, during his absence, scarcely could even the birth of their 
daughter divert her mind from his perils. Another grief was 
added to all this. D’Erfeuil spent a year in Scotland, strongly 
persuaded that he had not revealed the secret of Corinne’s sojourn 
there; but he said so much that implied it, and found such diffi- 
culty, when conversation flagged, in avoiding the theme most in- 
teresting to Lady Nevil, that she at last learned the whole truth. 
Innocent as she was, it required even less art than she possessed 
to draw d’Erfeuil out upon a favorite subject. Layly Edgarmond 
was too ill to be present at these conversations; but when she ques* 
tioned her daughter on the melancholy she detected, Lucy told 


560 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


all. Her mother spoke very severely on Corinne’s pursuit of Os- 
wald. Lucy was alternately jealous of her sister, and indignant 
against her husband, for deserting one to whom he had been so 
dear. She could not help trembling for her own peace, with a 
man who had thus wrecked that of another. She had ever 
cherished a grateful recollection of her early instructress, wLich 
now blended with sympathy : far from feeling flattered by Os- 
wald’s sacrifice, she was tormented by the idea that he had chosen 
her merely because her position in the world was more advan- 
tageous than that of Corinne. She remembered his hesitation be- 
fore marriage, his sadness so soon after, and everything confirmed 
the cruel belief that her husband loved her not. Lady Edgar- 
mond might have been of great service to her daughter, had she 
striven to calm her ; but she too intolerantly anathematized all 
sentiments that deviated from the line of duty; nor dreamed of 
tenderly leading a wanderer back, thinking that the only way 
to awake conscience was by just resentment. She was mortified 
that so lovely a woman should be so ill appreciated ) and aggra- 
vated Lucy’s fears, in order to excite her pride. Lady Nevil, 
more gentle and enlightened than her mother, could not rigorous- 
ly follow such advice ; yet her letters to Oswald were always far 
colder than her heart. Meanwhile he was distinguishing himself 
nobly, exposing his life, not merely in honorable enthusiasm, but 
in a positive love of peril. He appeared most gay when most 
actively employed, and would blush with pleasure when the tu- 
mult of battle commenced. At such moments a weight seemed 
lifted from his heart, and he could breathe with ease. The popu- 
larity he enjoyed among his fellow-soldiers animated the existence 
it could not render happy, and almost blinded him both to the 
past and the future. He grew accustomed to the lukewarm corre- 
spondence of his wife, whom he .did not suppose offended with him. 
When he remembered her, it was as a being worthy of his pro- 
tection, and whose mind he ought to spare from all deeply serious 
thoughts. But in those splendid tropic nights, that give so grand 
an idea of nature and its Author, the image of Corinne was often 
with him ; yet, as both war and climate menaced his life each 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


861 


hour, he excused his lingering memory. At the approach of 
eternity, we forgive and hope to he forgiven. He thought but 
of the tears Ms death would cause her, not upon those his errors 
had extorted It w T as natural he should think most of her; they 
had so often talked of immortality, and sounded every depth of 
solemn feeling : he fancied that he still conversed with her, while 
occupied by the great thoughts the spectacles of war invariably 
suggest. It was to Corinne he spoke in solitude, although he 
knew that she must sadly blame him. Despite absence, distance, 
time, and every change, they seemed to understand each other still. 

At last his regiment was ordered home. The monotony of 
shipboard pleased him less than had the stir of arms. External 
excitement supplied some of the imaginative joys he owed to his 
intercourse with Corinne. He had not yet attempted to live 
calmly without her. The proofs of devotion his soldiers gave 
him somewhat beguiled thé voyage ; but even that interest failed 
on their landing in England. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Nevil had now to renew his acquaintance with his own family, 
after four years’ separation. He arrived at Lady Edgarmond’s 
castle in Northumberland. Lucy presented her child with as 
much diffidence as if she had deemed herself guilty. Her imagi- 
nation had been so occupied by her sister, during the period of 
her maternal expectations, that little Juliet displayed the dark 
©yes and hair of Corinne. Her father, in wild agitation, pressed 
her to his heart; and from that instant, Lucy could not take un- 
qualified delight in his affection for his daughter. The young 
wife was now nearly twenty. Her beauty had attained a dignity 
which inspired Nevil with respect. Lady Edgarmond was too 
infirm to leave her bed ; yet, though this tried her temper, she 
received her son-in-law with satisfaction ; having feared that she 
should die in his absence, and leave her daughter alone upon tho 
31 


362 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY, 


world, Oswald, so long accustomed to a military careef , found 
it very difficult to remain nearly all day in the chamber of an 
invalid, who received no one but himself and wife. Lucy dearly 
loved her lord; but, believing her affection unprized, concealed 
what she knew of his passion for Corinne, and became mure 
silent than ever. Mild as she was, her mother had so influenced 
her, that when Oswald hinted at the added charm she would gain 
by a little animation, she recéived this but as a proof that he still 
preferred her sister, and was too hurt to profit by it : he could 
not speak of the fine arts without occasioning her a sadness that 
repressed his enthusiasm. Had she been better taught, she 
would have treasured up his lightest word, that she might study 
how to please him. Lady Edgarmond evinced a growing distaste 
for all deviations from her habitual routine : her irritated nerves 
shrunk from every sound. She would have reduced life to a 
state of stagnation, as if the less to regret its loss : but, as few 
like to confess their personal motives for certain opinions, she 
supported hers on the general principles of exaggerated morality ; 
and disenchanted life, by making sins of its least amusements — 
by opposing some duty to every employment which would have 
made .to-day differ from yesterday or to-morrow. Lucy, duteous 
as she was, had so much flexibility of mind that she would have 
joined her husband in gently reasoning with this exacting auste- 
rity, had she not been persuaded that it was adopted merely to 
discountenance Oswald's Italian predilections. “ You must strug- 
gle most perseveringly," would her mother say, “ against any 
return of that dangerous infatuation." Lord Nevil had a great 
reverence for duty; but he understood it in a wider sense than 
that of Lady Edgarmond : tracing it to its source, he found that 
it might perfectly accord with natural inclination, instead of re- 
quiring perpetual combats and sacrifices. Virtue, he thought, 
far from rendering life a torture, contributes to the duration of 
its happiness, and may be considered as a sort of prescience 
granted “ to man alone beneath the heaven." Sometimes, in 
explaining these ideas, he yielded to the pleasure of quoting Co- 
rinne ; but such language always offended his mother-in-law. New 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


863 


doctrines ever displease the old. They like to fancy that the 
world has been losing wisdom, instead of gaining it, since they 
were young. Lucy's heart instinctively detected the echoes of 
her sister’s voice in the sentiments Oswald breathed with so much 
ardor. She would cast down her eyes to hide this consciousness : 
her husband, utterly unaware of it, attributed her apparent in- 
sensibility to want of comprehension ; and not knowing where to 
seek congeniality sank into despondence. He wrote to Castel 
Forte for news of Corinne ; but the war prevented the letter’s 
arrival. His health suffered from the cold of England ; and the 
physicians assured him that his chest would be again attacked, if 
he did not pass the winter in Italy. He told this to his wife and 
mother, adding, that the war between France and England must 
at present prevent his tour. “ And when peace is concluded,” 
said Lady Edgarmond, “ I should hope, my Lord, that you would 
not think of returning to Italy.” — “ If his health depends on it,” 
ventured Lucy, “he could not do better.” Oswald expressed 
much gratitude for her kindness. Alas ! his thanks but assured 
her of his love for another. 

War ceased; and every time Oswald complained, Lucy’s heart 
was divided between her dread of his departure for Italy, and 
her fondness, which overrated his indisposition. He attributed 
her doubt of the necessity for this voyage to selfishness : thus 
each wounded the other’s feelings, because neither dared confess 
their own. All these interests were soon absorbed in the state of 
Lady Edgarmond, who was now speechless, and could only ex- 
press herself by tears, or by the manner in which she pressed 
their hands. Lucy was in despair. Oswald sat up every night 
with her. It was now December; and these cares were highly 
injurious to him, though they seemed much to gratify the sufferer, 
whose faults disappeared just as her agonies would have excused 
them. The approach of death stills all the tumults of soul from 
which most of our errors proceed, On her last night, she joined 
the hands of Oswald and Lucy, pressed them to her heart, and 
meed her eyes to heaven ; no longer deploring the voice which 


864 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

could have added nothing to the impressiveness of that action — > 
that look. In a few seconds she expired. 

Lord Nevil, who had supported himself by great effort, for her 
sake, now became dangerously ill, and pocr Lucy’s distress was 
thus redoubled. In his delirium, he often named Corinne, and 
Italy, sighing : “ Oh, for the southern sun ! it is so cold in the 
north here : I shall never be warm again.” When he recovered 
his senses, he was surprised at finding that Lucy had prepared 
everything for his voyage: she merely repeated the advice of his 
physicians, adding : “ If you will permit it, I shall accompany 
you ; and our child ought not to be parted from her parents.” — 
“No, no, we will not part,” he answered; “but if this journey 
would pain you, I renounce it.” — “ That will not pain me,” she 
replied. Oswald took her hand, and gazed inquiringly on her : 
she would have explained herself; but the memory of her mo- 
ther’s advice, never to betray a sign of jealousy, reproved her, 
and she added : “ You must be sure, my Lord, that my first ob- 
ject is the re-establishment of your health.” — “ You have a sister 
in Italy,” continued he. — “I know it: have you any tidings of 
her?” — “Never, since I left for America.” — “ Well, my Lord, 
we shall learn all in Italy.” — “ Are you then interested in her 
still ?” — “ Yes : I have not forgotten the tenderness she showed 
my childhood.” — “ We ought not to forget,” sighed Nevil ; and 
both again were silent. Oswald had too much delicacy to desire 
a renewal of his former ties with Corinne ; but he thought that 
it would be sweet to die in Italy, after receiving her pardon and 
adieu. He little deemed that his delirium had betrayed him, and 
did injustice to the mind of his wife ; because it had rather shown 
him the opinion of others than what she felt herself, he believed 
she loved him as much as she could love, but he knew nothing 
of her sensibility ; at present, her pride disguised it ; but, had 
she been perfectly happy, she would have thought it improper to 
avow a passionate affection even for her own husband; capable 
as she was of it, education had convinced her that it would be 
immodest to profess this feeling ; but nothing could teach her to 
take pleasure in speaking of anything else. 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


865 


CHAPTER Y. 

Oswald, disliking all recollections of France, crossed it very 
hastily. Lucy evinced neither wish nor will of any kind, but left 
it for him to decide everything. They reached the base of the 
mountains that separate Dauphiny from Savoy, and ascended the 
Pas des Echelles on foot : this road is dug in the rocks ; its 
entrance resembles a deep cavern ; it is dark throughout, even iu 
the brightest days of summer. As yet, they found no snow ; but 
autumn, the season of decay, was herself fast fading. The road 
was covered with dead leaves, borne to this region on the gale, 
from the distant trees. Thus they saw the wreck of nature^ 
without beholding any promise of her revival. The sight of tin 
mountains charmed Lord Nevil : while we live among plains, the 
earth seems only made to bear and nourish man ; but in pic- 
turesque countries we see the impress of thrir Creator’s power 
and genius; yet man is everywhere familiarized with nature: the 
roads he frames ascend the steep, or fathom the abyss; nothing is 
inaccessible to him, save the great mystery of his own being. In 
Morienne, the winter was more rigorously felt at every step : one 
might fancy one’s self wending northward, in approaching Mont 
Cenis. Lucy, who had never travelled before, was alarmed at 
finding the ice render the horses’ pace unsteady : she hid her 
fears, but reproached herself for having brought her little one 
with her : often doubting whether the resolve to do so had been 
purely moral, or whether the hope of growing dearer to Oswald, 
by constantly associating her image with that of their beloved 
child, had not deadened her to the risks Juliet would thu3 incur. 
Lucy was apt to perplex her mind with secret scruples of con- 
science ; the more virtuous we are, the more this kind of fasti- 
diousness increases : she had no resource, save in her long and 
silent prayers, which somewhat tranquillized her spirit. The 
landscape now took a more terrific character: the snow fell 
heavily on ground already covered with it. They seemed enter- 
ing the Hell of Ice described by Dante. From the foot of th« 
81 * 


366 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


precipices to the mountain -tops, all varieties were concealed. The 
pines, now clothed in white, were mirrored in the winter like 
spectral trees. Oswald and Lucy gazed in silence ; speech would 
have seemed presumptuous; nature was frozen into dumbness, 
aud they were mute like her. Suddenly they perceived, o’! an 
immense extent of snow, a long file of darkly clad figures carry- 
ing a bier towards a church. These priests, the only living 
beings who broke this desert solitude, preserved their wonted 
pace. The thought of death lent it a gravity which not even the 
bleakness of the air tempted them to forget. Here was the 
mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human life. 

No color was left — that black, that white, thus united, struck 
the soul with awe. “ What a sad omen !” sighed Lady Nevil. — 
“Lucy,” interrupted Oswald, “trust me, it is not for you.” — 
“ Alas !” he thought, “ it was not beneath such auspices I travelled 
with Corinne. Where is she now? may not these gloomy objects 
be but warnings of what I am to suffer?” Lucy's nerves were 
shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind of fear is 
almost unknown to an intrepid man ; aud she mistook for care- 
lessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible ex- 
istence. The common people, who have no better exercise for 
fancy, love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect 
they thus produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every 
winter, tell their guests wild tales of “ le Mont” as if it were an 
immovable monster, guarding the vales that lead to the land of 
promise. They watch the weather for formidable symptoms, and 
beg all foreigners to avoid crossing Mont Cenis during la tour - 
mente. This is a wind announced by a white cloud, spread like 
a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering the whole horizon. 
Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to Nevil, who 
was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy to 
think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his pil- 
grimage agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, 
and she judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their 
ascent, several peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired 
to carry her up the mountain, however, assured her that theie 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 


367 


wa3 nothing to apprehend : she looked at Nevil, and saw that he 
laughed at these predictions; therefore, piqued by his security, 
she professed herself ready to depart. He knew not how much 
this resolution cost her, but mounted a horse and followed the 
litter which bore his wife and child. The way was easy, till they 
were about the centre of the flat which precedes the descent, when 
a violent hurricane arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy’s bearers, 
and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious men who 
devote their lives to succor travellers on the Alps began to ring 
their alarm-bell ; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighbor- 
hood of benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed 
more expressive of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that 
Oswald would propose passing the night at this monastery; but, 
as she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten on, while day. 
light lasted. Lucy’s bearers inquired, with some uneasiness, if 
she wished them to descend. “ Yes,” she said, “ since my Lord 
does not oppose it.” She erred in thus suppressing her feelings : 
the presence of her child would have excused them ; but, while 
we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each 
instant brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained 
on horseback, though that was the least safe method of descent, 
but he believed himself thus secure against losing sight of his 
wife and child. From the summit, 'Lucy looked down on the 
abrupt road which she would have taken for a precipice, had not 
steeps still more perpendicular been close at hand. She pressed 
her darling to her heart with strong emotion. Oswald observed 
this, and, quitting his saddle, joined the men who carried her 
litter. The graceful zeal with which he did this filled her eyes 
with tears ; but, at that instant, the whirlwind rose so furiously 
that her bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming : “ 0 God, pro- 
tect us !” Lucy regained her courage ; and, raising herself, held 
Juliet towards Lord Nevil. “ Take your child, my love !” she 
said. Oswald received it, answering: “ And you too — come, I 
can carry ye both!” — “ No,” she said, “ only save her!” — 
“Save!” he repeated: “is there any danger? Unhappy 
wretches — why did you not tell us ?”— “ They did,” interrupted 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

y. — And you concealed it from me? IIow have I merited 

ia cruel reserve ?” He wrapped his cloak round Juliet, and 
cast down his eyes in deep disquietude ; but heaven most merci- 
fully appeased the storm, and lent a ray which showed them the 
fertile plains of Piedmont. In another hour they arrived un- 
harmed at Novalaise, the first Italian town after crossing Mont 
Cenis. On entering the inn, Lucy embraced her child, and re- 
turned her fervent thanks to God. Oswald leaned pensively near 
the fire, and, when she rose, held out his hand to her, saying : 
“You were alarmed then, love ?” — “Yes, dear.” — “Why would 
you go on ?” — “ You seemed impatient to proceed.” — “ Do you 
not know that, above all things, I dread exposing you to pain or 
danger?” — “ It is for Juliet that they are to be dreaded,” she 
replied, taking the little one on her lap to warm it, and twisting 
round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the snow had 
matted on that fair brow.* The mother and child formed sc 
charming a picture, that Oswald gazed on them with tender 
admiration; but Lucy’s silence discouraged the feeling which 
might else have led to a mutual understanding. They arrived at 
Turin, where the season was unusually severe. The vast apart- 
ments of Italy were destined to receive the sun. Their freshness 
in summer is most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they 
seem cheerless deserts; and their possessors feel like pigmies in 
the abode of giants. The death of Alfieri had iust occasioned a 
general mourning among his proud countrymen. Nevil no 
longer recognized the gayety formerly so dear to him. The 
absence of her he loved disenchanted both nature and art : he 
sought intelligence of her, and learned that for five years she had 
published nothing, but lived in seclusion at Florence. He re- 
solved on going thither; not to remain, and thus violate the 
affection he owed to Lucy, but to tell Corinne how ignorant he 
had been of her residence in Scotland. In crossing Lombardy, he 

* Madame de Staël gave Lucy, at three years of age, hair long enough 
to make a bracelet. She was thinking of French children. The formal 
Edgarmonds were not more likely to deviate from the English fashion 
than to christen Nevil’s daughter Juliette. — Tr. 


369 


"CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

sighed : “How beautiful this was, when all those elms were in 
full leaf, with vines linking them together !” — “ How beautiful it 
was,” thought Lucy, “while Corinne shared it with you !” A 
humid fog, such as oft arises in so well-watered a land, obscured 
their view of the country. During the night they heard the 
deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the roof, as if water 
was pursuing them with all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in 
vain for the charm of Italy : it seemed that everything conspired 
to veil it in gloom for Oswald and herself. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Since Lord Nevil had been in Italy, he had not spoken a word 
of the language ; it even made him ill to hear it. On the even- 
ing of his arrival at Milan, he heard a tap at the door, which was 
followed by the entrance of a man, whose dark and prominent 
face would have been expressive, if animated by natural enthu- 
siasm : it wore an unvaryingly gracious smile, and a look that 
strove to be poetical. He stood at the door, improvising verses 
in praise of the group before him, but such as might have suited 
any other husband, wife, or child, just as truly ; and so exaggerated, 
that the speaker seemed to think poetry ought to have no connec- 
tion with truth. Oswald perceived that he was a Romaii ; yet, 
harmonious as were the sounds he uttered, the vehemence of his 
declamation served but to indicate more plainly the unmean- 
ing insipidity of all he said. Nothing could be more painful 
for Oswald than to hear the Roman tongue thus spoken, for the 
first time after so long an interval ; to see his dearest memories 
travestied, and feel his melancholy renewed by an object so ridi- 
culous. Lucy guessed all this, and would have dismissed the 
improvisatoré ; but it was impossible to make him hear her : he 
paced the chamber all gesture and exclamation, heedless of the 
disgust he dealt his hearers, proceeding like a machine that could 
not stop till after a certain moment. At last that time arrived 


àfO CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

and Lucy paid him to depart. 11 Poetic language,” said Oswald, 
u is so easily parodied here, that it ought to' be forbidden all save 
those who are worthy to employ it.” — “ True,” observed Lucy, 
perhaps a little too pointedly : “ it is very disagreeable to be re- 
minded of what you admire, by such a burlesque as we have just 
endured.” — “ Not so,” he answered; “the contrast only makes 
me more deeply feel the power of genius. This same language, 
which may be so miserably degraded, became celestial poetry from 
the lips of Corinne — your sister .” Lucy felt overwhelmed; he 
had not pronounced that name to her before ; the addition of your 
sister sounded as if conveying a reproach. She was half suffo- 
cated ; and had she given way to her tears, this moment might have 
proved the sweetest in her life ; but she restrained them, and the 
embarrassment between herself and husband became more painful 
than before. On the next day the sun broke forth, like an exile 
returning to his own land. The Nevils availed themselves of his 
brightness to visit Milan cathedral, the chef-d’œuvre of Gothic 
architecture : it is built in the form of a cross — fair, melancholy 
image in the midst of wealth. Lofty as it is, the ornaments are 
elaborate as those lavished on some minute object of admiration. 
What time and patience must it have cost ! This perseverance 
towards the same aim is transmitted from age to age, and the 
human race, stable at least in thought, can leave us proofs of this, 
imperishable almost as thought itself. A Gothic building en- 
genders true religion : it has been said that the popes have con- 
secrated more wealth to the building of modern temples than 
devotion to the memory of old churches. The light, falling 
through colored glass, the singular forms of the architecture, unite 
to give a silent image of that infinite mystery which the soul for- 
ever feels, and never comprehends. 

Lord and Lady Nevil left Milan when the earth was covered 
with snow. This is a sadder sight in Italy than elsewhere, becaus* 
it is unusual : the natives lament bad weather as a public calamity. 
Oswald was vain of his favorite country, and angry that it would 
not smile its best for Lucy. They passed through Placenta, 
Parma, and Modena The churches and palaces of eac'h are too 


371 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

vast, in proportion to the number and fortune of the inhabitants ï 
all seems arranged for the reception of the great, who as yet have 
but sent some of their retinue forward. On the morning of their 
reaching Taro, the floods were thundering from the Alps and 
Apennines, with such frightful rapidity, that their roar scarce 
announced them ere they came. Bridges are hardly practicabh 
over rivers that so often rise above the level of the plain. Os- 
wald and Lucy found their course suddenly checked. All boats 
had been washed away by the current ; and they were obliged to 
wait till the Italians, who never hurry themselves, chose to bring 
them back. The fog confounded the water with the sky ; and 
the whole spectacle rather resembled the descriptions of Stys 
than the bounteous streams lent as refreshments to the burniog 
south. Lucy, trembling lest the intense cold should hurt her 
child, bore it into a fisher’s hut, in the centre of which a fire had 
been kindled, as is done in Russia. 

“ Where is your lovely Italy ?” she asked Oswald, with a smile. 
“ I know not when I shall regain her,” he answered sadly. Ap- 
proaching Parma, and all the cities on that road, they perceived 
from afar the flat-terraced roofs that give Italy so original an 
air. Churches and spires stand forth boldly amid these buildings ; 
and, after seeing them, the northern-pointed roofs, so constructed 
to permit the snow to run off, create a very unpleasant sensation 
Parma still preserves some fine pictures by Correggio. Oswald 
took Lucy to a church which, boasts a fresco of his La Madonna 
della Sc ala : while he drew the curtain from before it, Lucy 
raised Juliet in her arms, that she might better see the picture ; 
and by chance their attitude was nearly the same with that of tha 
Virgin and Child. Lucy had so much of the modest grace which 
Correggio loved to paint, that Oswald looked from the ideal to 
the real with surprise. As she noticed this her lids declined, and 
the resemblance became still more strong. Correggio is, perhaps, 
the only painter who knew how to give downcast eyes an expres- 
sion affecting as that of those raised to heaven. The veil he 
throws over such looks, far from decreasing their thoughtful 
tenderness, lends it the added charm of heavenly mystery. Ths 


372 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Madonna is almost detached from the wall. A breath might 
blow its hues away; this fear gives it a melancholy interest: its 
adorers oft return to bid such fleeting beauty a fond farewell. As 
they left the church, Oswald said to Lucy, u A little while, and 
that picture will be no more ! but its model is mine own forever.” 
These soft words touched her heart : she pressed his hand, about 
to ask him if he could not trust her tenderness; but as when ho 
spoke coldly her pride forbade complaint, so when his language 
made her blest, she dreaded to disturb that moment’s peace, in 
an attempt to render it more durable. Thus always she found 
reasons for her silence, hoping that time, resignation, and gentle- 
ness, might bring at last the happy day which would disperse her 
apprehensions. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Lord Nevil’s health improved, yet cruel anxiety still agitated 
his heart. He constantly sought tidings of Corinne; but every- 
where heard the same report : how different from the strain in 
which her name had once been breathed ! Could the man who 
bad destroyed her peace and fame forgive himself? Travellers 
drawing near Bologna are attracted by too very high towers ; the 
one, however, leans so obliquely as to create a sensation of alarm ; 
vainly is it said to have been built so, and to have lasted thus for 
centuries; its aspect is irresistibly oppressive. Bologna boasis a 
great number of highly-informed men; but the common people 
are disagreeable. Lucy listened for the melodious Italian, of 
which she had been told; but the Bolognese dialect painfully 
disappointed her. Nothing more harsh can exist in the no/th. 
They arrived at the height of the Carnival, and heard, both «lay 
and night, cries of joy that sounded like those of rage. A popula- 
tion like that of the Lazzaroni, eat and sleep beneath the numerous 
arcades that border the streets : during winter, they carry a little 
fire in an earthen vessel. In cold weather, no nightly music i? 


373 


*C'- VNE; OR, ITALY. 

Ijeard in Italy : it is replace in Bologna by a clamor truly alarming 
to foreigners. The mannew of the populace are much more gross 
in some few southern states than can be found elsewhere. In-door 
life perfects social order: the heat that permits people to live thus 
in public engenders many savage habits.(36) Lord and Lady 
Nevil could not walk forth without being assailed by beggars, the 
scourge of Italy. As they passed the prisons, whose barred 
windows look upon the streets, the captives demanded alms with 
immoderate laughter. t( It is not thus,” said Lucy, “ that our 
people show themselves the fellow-citizens of their betters. 0, 
Oswald ! can such a country please you?” — “ Heaven forbid,” he 
replied, “ that I should ever forget my own ! but when you have 
passed the Apennines you will hear the Tuscans — meet intellectual 
and animated beings, who, I hope, will render you less severe.” 

Italians, indeed must be judged according to circumstances. 
Sometimes the evil that has been spoken of them seems but true ; 
at others, most unjust. All that has previously been described 
of their governments and religion proves that much may be as- 
serted against them generally, yet that many private virtues are 
to be found amongst them. The individuals chance throws on 
the acquaintance of our travellers decide their notions of the whole 
race; such judgment, of course, can find no basis in the public 
spirit of the country Oswald and Lucy visited the collections of 
pictures that enrich Bologna. Among them was Domenichino’s 
Sibyl ; before which Nevil unconsciously lingered so long, that 
his wife at last dared ask him, if this beauty said more to his 
heart than Correggio’s Madonna had done. He understood, and 
was amazed at so significant an appeal : after gazing on her for some 
time, he replied, “ The Sibyl utteré oracles no more : her beauty, 
like her genius, is gone; but the angelic features I admired in 
Correggio have lost none of their charms; and the unhappy wretch 
who so much wronged the one will never betray the other.” He 
left the place, to conceal his agitation. 

32 


374 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


BOOK XX. 

CONCLUSION. 

CHAPTER I. 

Oswald now, for the first time, comprehended that Lucy was 
aware of his affection for her sister, and deemed that her coolness 
might have sprung from secret disquietude : yet now he feared an 
explanation as much as she had done ; and now she would have 
told him all, had he required it ; but it would have cost him too 
much to speak of Corinne, just as he was about to rejoin her, 
especially with a person whose character he so imperfectly knew. 
They crossed the Apennines, and regained the sweet climate of 
Italy. The sea-breeze, so glowing in summer, now spread a gentle 
heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly over, and yet the 
spring already peeping forth. The markets teemed with oranges 
and pomegranates. The Tuscan tongue was audible; and all 
Oswald's dearest memories revived, though now unmixed with 
hope. The mild air would have rendered Lucy confiding, had he 
encouraged her. Had a Corinne been with them, she would soon 
have learned their secrets; but the more congenial they were, in 
natural and national reserve, the less easy was it for them to 
break the ice which kept their hearts asunder. 


CHAPTER II. 

As soon as they arrived in Florence, Nevil wrote to Castel 
Forte ; and in a few minutes the Prince came to him. It was 
some time ere either spoke; at last Nevil asked for Corinne. “ I 
have none but sad news for you," said her friend : “ she grows 
weaker every day; sees no one but myself, and can scarce attempt 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


375 


any occupation ; yet I think she has been calmer since we learned 
you were in Italy; though I cannot disguise from you, that at 
first her emotions on that intelligence caused her a relapse of 
fever. She has not told me her intentions, for I carefully avoid 
your name.” — “ Have the goodness, Prince/' said Oswald, “ to 
give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since : it contained 
a detail of all the circumstances that prevented my hearing of 
her journey to Scotland before I married. When she has read 
it, ask her to receive me. I long to justify myself with her, if 
possible. Her esteem is essential to me, though I can no 
longer pretend to more." — “I will obey your desires, my 
Lord," said Castel Forte, “and wish that I may in any way 
be of service." Lady Nevil now entered the room. Oswald 
made her known to his friend. She met him coldly. He gazed 
on her with much attention, sighed, thought of Corinne, and took 
leave. Oswald followed him. “ Lady Nevil is very beautiful," 
said the Prince : “ so fresh and young ! Alas ! my poor love is 
no longer so; yet forget not, my Lord, that she was a brilliant 
creature when you saw her first." — “Forget!" exclaimed Os- 
wald : “ no, nor ever forgive myself." He could utter no more, 
and for the rest of the day was gloomily silent. Lucy sought not 
tc disturb him : her forbearance was unlucky; for he only thought : 
“ Had Corinne beheld me sad, she would have striven to console 
me." The next morning his anxiety early led him to Castel 
Forte. “ Well !" he cried, “ what says she ?" — “ That she will 
not see you," answered the Prince. — “And her motives?" — “I 
found her yesterday, in spite of her weakness, pacing the room 
all agitation, her paleness sometimes giving way to a vivid blush, 
that faded as suddenly as it rose. I told her your request : after 
some instants’ silence, she said — if you exact from me her own 
4 words: ‘That man has done me too much wrong already; but 
the foe who threw me into prison, banished and proscribed me 
has not yet brought my spirit quite so low as he may think. I 
have suffered more than woman ever endured beside — alter- 
nate fondness and indignation making thought a perpetual tor- 
ture. Oswald should remember that I once told him it would 
cost me more to renounce my admiration than my love. He baa 


376 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


despoiled the object of my worship : he deceived me, voluntarily 
or otherwise — no matter : he is not what I believed hirn. He 
sported for nearly a year with my affection; and, when he ought 
to have defended me, when his actions should have proved he had 
a heart, how did he treat me ? Can he boast of having made one 
generous sacrifice ? No ! he is happy now, possessing all the ad- 
vantages best appreciated by the world. I am dying , let him 
leave me in peace V ” — “ These words are very harsh,” sighed Os- 
wald. — “She is changed by suffering,” admitted Castel Forte; 
u yet I have often found her so charitable, that, let me own, she 
has defended you against me.” — “You think me unpardonable, 
then ?” — “ If you permit me to say so. The injuries we may do 
women hurt not us in public opinion. The fragile idol of to-day 
may be broken to-morrow, without finding one protector; for that 
very reason do I respect the sex, whose moral welfare can find its 
safety but in our bosoms. A mortal stab is punished by the law; 
but breaking a tender heart is a theme for jest. I would forgive 
murder by poniard soonest.” — “Believe me,” cried Nevil, “I, 
too, have been wretched — that is my sole extenuation; but for- 
merly she would have listened to it, now it avails me nothing ; yet 
I will write to her : I still believe, in spite of all that parts us, 
she may yet understand me.” — “I will bear your letter, my 
Lord ; but I entreat you temper it well ; you guess not what you 
are to her. Years can but deepen an impression, when no new 
idea has divided its empire. Would you know in what state she 
is at present? A fantasy, from which my prayers could not 
divert her, enables me to show you.” He opened the door of 
another room ; and Nevil first beheld a portrait of Corinne as she 
appeared in Juliet, on the night, of all others, when he felt most * 
enamored of her. The confidence of happiness breathed from 
each feature The memories of that festal time came back on 
Oswald’s heart; but as he yielded to them, the Prince took his 
hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, and showed him 
Corinne, painted that same year, in the black dress, such as she 
had never abandoned since her return from England. Her lost 
lover recollected the figure which had passed him in the Park ; 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


877 


but above all was he struck with the total change in her appear 
ance. The long black lashes veiled her languid eyes, and threw 
a shadow over the tintless cheek : beneath was written this line, 
from the Pastor Fido : — 

“ A pena si pud5 dir : ‘ Questa fa rosa !’ ” 

“ Scarcely can we now say : ‘ This was a rose !’ ” 

How !” cried Lord Nevil ; “looks she like this ?” — “ Within 
the last fortnight still worse,” returned the Prince; and Oswald 
rushed from him, as if distracted. 


CHAPTER III. 

The unhappy man shut himself in his room. At the dinner 
hour, Lucy, leading Juliet by the hand, tapped gently at his 
door ; he opened it, saying : “ Think not the worse of me, my 
dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-day.” His 
wife raised her child in her arms, and retired without a word. 
He now looked at the letter he had written to Coriune, and, 
bursting into tears exclaimed : “ Shall I, then, make poor Lucy 
wretched too ? What is my life worth, if it serves but to render 
all who love me miserable ?” 

Letter from Lord Nevil to Corinne. 

“Were you not the most generous of human beings, what 
could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by reproaches, or 
still lower by your griefs ? I have done such ill to her I loved, 
that I almost believe myself a monster. Am I, Corinne? I 
suffer so much, that I cannot think myself an utter barbarian ! 
You know, when first I met you, I was a prey to despair, that 
nearly brought me to the grave : I sought not happiness, but 
struggled long against your attraction ; even when it triumphed, 
presentiments of misfortune lingered still. Sometimes I believed 
32 * 


378 


SORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


you destined by my father to make me once more feel myself as 
well beloved as I had been by him ; then did I fear to disobey his 
will, in marrying a foreigner. On my return to England, this 
sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by parental authority. 
Had he still lived, I should have felt a right to combat it; but 
the dead cannot hear us, and the irrevocable commands of those 
now powerless, possess a touching and a sacred force. — Once more 
surrounded by the.ties of country, I met your sister, selected for 
me by my sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a 
quiet life. My weakness makes me dread some kinds of agita- 
tion : my mind is easily seduced by new hopes ; but my sick soul 
shrinks from resolves that interfere with its original habits or 
affections. Yet, Corinne, had I known you were in England, 
that proof of tenderness would have decided me. Ah ! where- 
fore vaunt I what I would hanve done ? Should we have been 
content? Am I capable of being so ? Could I ever have chosen 
any one fate, without still pining after some other? When you 
restored my liberty, I fell into the common error, telling myself 
that so superior a woman might easily be estranged from me. 
Corinne, I have wounded your heart, I know; but I thought 
mine the only sacrifice : I deemed you would forget me. I can- 
not deny that Lucy is worthy of a still warmer attachment than I 
could give her; but since I learned your voyage to England, and 
the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a perpetual pain, 
Ï sought for death, certain that when you heard I was no more, 
you would forgive me. Doubtless, you can oppose to this years 
of fidelity and regret, such as my ingratitude ill merits ; yet think 
— a thousand complicated circumstances invade the constancy of 
man. Imagine, if possible, that I have neither given nor received 
felicity ; that my heart has been lonely since I left you, scarce 
daring even to commune with itself; that the mother of my child, 
who has so many titles to my love, is a stranger to my history 
and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced me 
to the state from which your cares, Corinne once extracted me. 
If I have returned to Italy, not for my health (you cannot sus- 
pect me of any love for life'), but to bid you farewell, can you 


379 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

refuse to see me but once more ? I wish it, because I think that 
it would benefit you; my own sufferings less prompt this desire. 
What use were it that I am miserable, that a dreadful weight 
presses upon my heart, if I came hither without obtaining pardon 
from you ? I ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being so ; 
but I feel certain that you would be solaced, if you could think 
upon me as your friend, and read, in Oswald’s looks and accents, 
how dear you are to the criminal whose fate is far more altered 
than his heart. I respect the ties I have formed, and love your 
sister; but the human breast, wild and inconsistent as it is, can 
reconcile that tenderness with what I feel for you. I have no- 
thing to say for myself that can be written ; all I might explain 
would but condemn me; yet, if you saw me prostrate before you, 
through all my faults and duties, you would perceive what you 
are to me still, and that conversation would leave a balm for both. 
Our health is failing : Heaven may not accord us length of days. 
Let, then, whichever may be destined to precede the other, feel 
regretted by the dear friend left behind. The innocent alone de- 
serve such joy: but may it not be granted to the guilty? Co* 
rinne, sublime soul ! you who can read all hearts, guess what I 
cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used to do. Let me 
but see you ; let my pallid lips touch your weak hand ! It was 
not I alone who wrought this ruin. No; the same sentiment 
consumed ua both : destiny struck two hearts, devoting one to 
crime ; that one, Corinne, may not be the least pitiable.” 

Answer. 

«If I required but to see and pardon you, I could not for an 
instant refuse. Why is it that I do not feel resentment, although 
the pangs you have caused me are so dreadful ? I must still love 
you, not to hate. Religion alone would not disarm me thus. 
There have been moments when my reason has left me; others, 
far sweeter, when I hoped to die before the day could end; and 
some in which I have doubted even virtue : you were to me its 
image here below : there was no guide for either my thoughts o J 


380 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


feelings, when the same blow struck both my admiration and my 
love. What would have become of me without Heavens help? 
Everything in this world was poisoned by your image : one sole 
asylum was left, and God received me. My strength decays, but 
not that supporting enthusiasm. I joy to think that the best aiua. 
in life is to become worthy of eternity : our bliss, our bane, alike 
tend to this purpose : and you were chosen to uproot the too strong 
hold I had on earth. Yet, when I saw your nandwriting, learned 
that you were but on the other side of the river, a fearful tumult 
rose within me : incessantly was I obliged to tell myself, 1 My sister 
is his wife/ To see you again appeared felicity : I will not deny 
that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred these indefinite raptures 
to an age of calm : but Providence has not abandoned me in this 
peril. Are you not the husband of another? What then have I 
to say to you ? Is it for me to die in your arms ? What would 
my conscience suffer, if I made no sacrifice ? if I permitted myself 
another hour with you ? I can only^appear before my God with 
anything like confidence by renouncing it. This resolution may 
appease my soul. Such happiness as I felt while you loved me 
is not in harmony with our mortal state; it agitates us, because 
we feel its fleetness : but religious meditation, that aims at self- 
improvement, and refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace ; 
and I know not what ravages the mere sound of your voice would 
make on the repose I believe I have regained. Why do you tell 
me that your health is impaired ? Alas ! I am no longer your 
nurse ; but still, I suffer with you. May God bless and prolong 
your days, my Lord Î Be happy, but be so through piety. A 
secret communion with Divinity gives us in ourselves the power 
of confiding to a being who consoles us : it makes two friends of 
one spirit. Do you still seek for what the world calls happiness ? 
Where will you find more than my tenderness would have be- 
stowed? Know you that in the deserts of the New World 1 
should have blessed my lot had you permitted me to follow you? 
I could have served you like a slave, have knelt before you as a 
heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. What have you 
done with so much faith? You have changed it into an affliction 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


381 


peerless as itself. Outrage me not, then, by one hope of happiness, 
except in prayer: let our thoughts meet in heaven! Yet when 
I feel myself about to die, perhaps I will be taken somewhere 
whence I may behold you pass. Assuredly, when my failing eyes 
can see no more, your image will be with me ; but might not a 
recent review of your features render it more distinct ? Deities of 
old were never present at the hour of death, so I forbid you mine ; 

but I should like to see you perfectly when Oswald, Oswald ! 

behold how weak I am, when abandoned to your recollection ! Why 
has not Lucy sought me ? Though she is your wife, she is still 
my sister. I have some kind and even generous things to tell her. 
And your child — I ought not to meet you ; but you are surrounded 
by my family. Do they disown me still ? or fear ye that poor 
little Juliet would be scared at seeing me? Ghost as I look, I 
yet could smile upon your daughter. Adieu, my Lord, adieu ! 
Remember that I might call you brother. At least you will mourn 
for me externally, and, as a kinsman, follow my remains to Rome : 
let them be borne by the road where my car passed ; and pause 
upon the spot where you restored my crown. Yet no, I am 
wrong, Oswald : I could exact nothing that could afflict you, only 
one tear, and sometimes a fond look towards the heaven where I 
shall soon await you.” 


CHAPTER IY. 

Many days elapsed ere Oswald could regain his composure : he 
avoided the presence of his wife^and passed whole hours on the 
banks of the river that separated him from Corinne; often tempted 
to plunge amid its waves, that they might bear his body to the 
abode he never must enter living. Amazed as he was at Corinne’s 
wish to see her sister, he longed to gratify it; yet how introduce 
the subject ? He saw that Lucy was hurt by his distress, and 
hoped that she would question him ; but she forboie, merely ez- 


382 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


pressing a desire to visit Rome or Naples : he always begged a 
brief delay, and Lucy, with cold dignity, was silent. 

Oswald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of his little 
daughter, and secretly bade the nurse take Juliet to her. He 
met them on their return, and asked the child how she had en- 
joyed her visit. She replied by an Italian phrase, and with an 
accent so resembling Corinne’s that her father started. “ Who 
taught you that, dear?” he asked. — “The lady,” she replied. — 
“And how did she behave to you?” — “Oh, she kissed me, and 
cried ; I don’t know why ; but it made her worse, for she looks very 
ill, papa.” — “ Do you love her, darling ?” — “ That I do. I’ll go 
to her every day. She has promised to teach me all she knows ; and 
says, that she will make me grow like Corinne : what’s that, pa? 
the lady did not tell me.” Lord Nevil could not answer : he 
withdrew, to conceal his agitation, but bade the nurse take Juliet 
daily to Corinne. Perhaps he erred in disposing of his child 
without her mother’s consent; but in a few days the young pu- 
pil’s progress was astonishing : her masters for Italian and music 
were all amazed. Nothing had ever pained Lucy more than her 
sister’s influence over Juliet’s education. The child informed her 
that, ill as the lady seemed, she took great pains with her. Lucy’s 
heart would have melted, could she have seen in all this anything 
but a design to win Nevil back. She was divided between the 
natural wish of being sole directress for her daughter, and self- 
reproach at the idea of withholding her from such valuable in- 
structions. One day Oswald came in as Juliet was practising a 
music lesson. She held a lyre proportioned to her size ; and her 
pretty arms fell into Corinne’s own attitude so perfectly, that he 
felt gazing on the miniature copy of a fine picture, with the added 
grace of childish innocence. He could not speak, but sank, trem- 
bling, on a seat. Juliet then played the Scotch air which he had 
heard at Tivoli, before the design from Ossian ; he listened breath- 
lessly. Lucy, unseen, stole behind him: as Juliet ceased, her 
father took her on his knee, and said : “ The lady on the banks of 
the Arno taught you this, did she not?” — “ Yes, papa; but it 
hurt her very much : she was so ill while she taught me, that I 


383 


CORINNE) OR, ITALY. 

tagged her to leave off, but 5 ^ would not. She made me pro- 
mise to play you that tune every year, on a particular day, I be- 
lieve it was the 17th of November.” — u My God !” cried Oswald 
bursting into tears. Lucy now stepped forward, and, taking Ju- 
liet by the hand, said, hastily : “ My Lord, it is too much to rob 
me of my child’s affection; that solace, at least, is due to my 
misfortunes.” She retired. Oswald would have followed her, but 
was refused. At the dinner hour he was told that she had been out 
for some time, not saying where. He was fearfully alarmed at her 
absence; but she shortly returned, with a calm and gentle air, 
such as he little expected. He would now have confided in her, 
and gained her pardon by sincerity, but she replied : “ Explana- 
tion, indeed, is needful to us both; yet, my dear Lord, permit me 
still to defer it : you will soon know iny motives for this request.” 
Her address, he perceived, was more animated than usual; and 
every day its warmth, its interest, increased. He could not under- 
stand this change : its cause is soon told. And that Lucy so long had 
hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she made her 
husband ; and, as usually happens to persons who suddenly break 
from their habitual character, she now ran into extremes, resolving 
to seek Corinne, and ask her if she had determined perpetually to 
disturb her wedded peace; but, as she arrived at her sister’s door, 
her diffidence returned; nor would she have had courage to enter, 
had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent Thérésina to 
entreat her. Lucy ascended to the sick chamber, and all her anger 
vanished at sight of its occupant. The sisters embraced in tears. 
Corinne then set an example of frankness which it was impossible 
for Lucy not to follow. Such was that mind’s ascendency over 
every one, that, in her presence, neither dissimulation nor con- 
straint could be preserved. Pallor and weakness confirmed her 
assertion, that she had not long to live : this sad truth added 
weight to her counsels. All Castel Forte had told her, and all 
ghe had guessed from Oswald’s letters, proved that reserve and 
coldness separated the Nevils from each other. She entered very 
simply on this delicate subject: her perfect knowledge of the hus- 
band’s character enabled her to point out why he required tb find 


384 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


spontaneously in those he loved thg. confidence which he could not 
solicit, and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned to his 
own susceptibility of discouragement. She described her past self 
impartially, as if speaking of another, and showed how agreeable 
it must be for a man to find, united with moral conduct, that de- 
sire to please which is often inspired by a wish to atone for the 
loss of virtue. u Many women,” she said, u have been beloved, 
not merely in spite of, but for the sake of their very errors ; be- 
cause they strove to extort a pardon by being ever agreeable, and 
having so much need of indulgence dared impose no laws on 
others. Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let 
your charms consist in seeming to forget them ; be Corinne and 
Lucy in one : nor let your own worth excuse to you a moment’s 
neglect of your graces, nor your self-respect render your manners 
repulsive. Were your dignity ill founded, it might wound him 
less; for an over-exertion of certain rights chills the heart more 
than do unjust pretensions. Love delights in paying more than 
is due, where nothing is exacted.” Lucy thanked her sister with 
much tenderness for the interest thus generously evinced in her 
welfare ; and Corinne resumed : u If I were doomed to live, I 
might not be capable of it ; but now my only selfish wish is, that 
Oswald should find some traces of my influence in you and in his 
child ; nor ever taste one rapture that reminds him not of Co- 
rinne.” Lady Nevil returned to her every day, and with the most 
amiable delicacy, studied to resemble the being so dear to her 
Lord. His curiosity increased, as he remarked the fresh attrac- 
tions she thus acquired : be knew that she must owe them to 
Corinne ; yet Lucy having promised to keep the secret of their 
meetings, no explanation occurred. The sufferer proposed yet to 
see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured that 
she had but a few moments to live; but she involved this plan in 
so much mystery, that Lucy knew not in what manner it was to 
be accomplished. 


CORINNE; OR, I T A I. Y. 


385 


CHAPTER V. 

Corinne desired to bid Nevil and Italy such a farewell as 
might recall the days on which her genius shone with its full 
splendor. A pardonable weakness. Love and glory were ever 
blended in her mind ; and, at that moment when her heart was 
about to resign all earthly ties, she wished Oswald to feel, once 
more, that it was the greatest woman of her day he had destroyed 
— the woman who best knew how to love and think — whose bril- 
liant success he had obscured in misery and death. 

She had no longer the strength required by an improvisatrice; 
but in solitude, since Oswald’s return, had resumed her zest for 
writing poetry; she therefore named a day for assembling in 
one of the galleries all who desired to hear her verses, begging 
Lucy to bring her husband ; adding, “ I feel I may demand this 
of you now.” Oswald was fearfully agitated, wondering what 
subject she had chosen, and whether she would recite herself: 
the bare possibility of looking on her threw him into extreme 
confusion. The morning came, and winter frowned on it with 
all the sternness of the north : the wind howled, the rain beat 
violently against the windows, and by an eccentricity more fre- 
quent in Italy than elsewhere, the thunder added a sense of dread 
to all this gloom. Oswald could not speak : everything around 
him increased the desolation of his soul. He entered the hall 
with Lucy : it was immensely crowded. In an obscure recess was 
placed" a sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being too ill to 
read her own verses. Dreading to show herself, changed as she 
was, she had chosen those means of seeing Oswald unseen. As 
soon as she knew that he was there, she veiled her face, and was 
supported to this couch ; from time to time staying to take breath, 
as if that short space had been a painful journey: the last steps 
of life are ever slow and difficult. Seating herself, her eyes sought 
Oswald, found him, and involuntarily starting up, she spread her 
arms ; but instantly fell back, turning away her face, like Dido 
when she met Æncas in a world which human passions should 
33 


386 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

not penetrate. Castel Forte detained Lord Nevil, who now, ut- 
terly beside himself, would have flown to fall at her feet: the 
Prince reminded him of the respect he owed Corinne before the 
world.* 

A young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with flowers, now 
appeared on the stage which had been erected. Her meek and 
peaceful face touchingly contrasting the sentiments she was about 
to breathe ; it was Corinne' s taste, which thus mingled something 
sweet with thoughts in themselves too dreary. Music nobly and 
affecting prepared the auditors. The hapless Oswald could not 
tear his eyes from Corinne : she was to him as an apparition that 
haunts a night of fever : it was through his own deep sighs that 
he heard the death-song of the swan, which the woman he had so 
much wronged addressed to his heart. 

THE LAST SONG OF CORINNE. 

Take ye my solemn farewell ! 0, my friends. 

Already night is darkening on my eyes ; — 

But is not heaven most beautiful by night Î 
Thousands of stars shine in the kindling sky, 

Which is an azure desert during day. 

Thus do the gathering of eternal shades 
Reveal innumerable thoughts, half lost 
In the full daylight of prosperity. * 

But weaken’d is the voice which might instruct; 

The soul retires within itself, and seeks 
To gather round itself its failing fire. 

From my first days of youth, my inward hope 
Was to do honor to the Roman name ; 

That name at which the startled heart yet beats. 

Ye have allow’d me fame, 0 generous land! 

Ye banished not a woman from the shrine! 

Ye do not sacrifice immortal gifts 
To passing jealousies, Ye who still yield 
Applause to Genius in its daring flight; 

Victor without the vanquished — Conqueror, 


* Not a word of what he owed his wife. — Tr. 


387 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

Yet without spoil ; — who, from eternity. 

Draws riches for all time. 

Nature and Life! with what deep confidence 
Ye did inspire me! I deem’d all grief arose 
For what we did not feel, or think enough: 

And that we might, even on this our earth, 
Beforehand taste that heavenly happiness, 

Which is — but length in our enthusiasm, 

But constancy in love. 

No, I repent it not, this generous faith; 

No, that caused not the bitter tears I’ve shed, 
Watering the dust which doth await me now. 

I had accomplish’d all my destiny — 

I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven, 

If I had only vow’d my sounding lyre 
To celebrate that goodness all divine, 

Made manifest throughout the universe. 

And thou, my God ! — Oh, thou wilt not reject 
The offering of the mind; for poetry, 

Its homage is religious, and the wings 
Of thought but serve to draw more near to thee. 

Religion has no limits, and no bonds; — 

The vast, the infinite, and the eternal. 

Never from her may Genius separate. 

Imagination from its earliest flight, 

Past o’er the bounds of life: and tho sublime 
Is the reflection of divinity. 

Alas! my God, had I loved only thee;* 

If I had raised my head aloft in heaven — 

From passionate affections shelter’d there, 

I had not now been crush’d before my time — 
Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams 
Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives, 

I only know it by my strength of grief: 


* “ Had I but served my God with half the zeal,” &c. — Wolsey. 
(Shakspeabk.) 



£88 Corinne; or, Italy. 

Under the features of an enemy 
I recognize it now. 

Farewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own lamS! 
Farewell, remembrances of infancy, 

Farewell! Ah, what have ye to do with death? 

And ye who in my writings may have found 
Feelings, whose echo was within your soul, 

Oh, friends of mine — where’er ye be — farewell! 
Corinne has suffer’d much — but suffer’d not 
In an unworthy cause : she has not lost 
At least her claim on pity. 

Beautiful Italy! it is in vain 
To promise me your loveliness; my heart 
Is worn and wasted; what can ye avail? 

Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs? 
Would ye recall my happiness, and thus 
Make me revolt against my fate? 

Meekly I do submit myself. Oh, ye 
Who may survive me — when the spring returns, 
Remember how I loved its loveliness ! 

How oft I sung its perfume and its air. 

I pray you sometimes to recall a line 

From out my songs — my soul is written there: 

But fatal Muses, love and misery, 

Taught my best poetry. 

When the designs of mighty Providence 
Are work’d in us, internal music marks 
The coming of the angel of the grave: 

Nor fearful, nor yet terrible he spreads 

His white wings; and, though compass’d by night, 

A thousand omens tell of his approach. 

If the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear 
His voice; and when night falls, the shadows rounà 
Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe. 

At noon, when life sees only the clear sky, 

Feels only the bright sun, the fated one 
Whom Death hath called, upon the distance mark» 
The heavy shade is so soon to shroud 
All nature from their eyes. 


389 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY 

Youth, hope, emotions of the heart — ye all 
Are now no more. Far from me — vain regrets ; 

If I can yet obtain some falling tears, 

If I can yet believe myself beloved, 

It is because I am about to die. 

Could I recall my fleeting life — that life, 

Soon would it turn upon me all its stings. 

And Rome! Rome, where my ashes will be borne! 

Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive, 

If, with a trembling step, I join the shades, 

The multitude of your illustrious dead! 

Forgive me for my pity of myself. * 

Feelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance 
As might have yielded fruit — expire with me. 

Of all the powers of mind which nature gave, 

The power of suffering has been the sole one, 

Which I have used to its extent. 

It matters not. — I do obey. — Whate’er 
May be the mighty mystery of death, 

That mystery at least must give repose. 

Ye do not answer me, ye silent tombs ! 

Merciful God, thou dost not answer me ! 

I made my choice on earth, and now my heart 
Has no asylum. Ye decide for me, 

And such a destiny is best. L. E. L. 

Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall resounded 
■with deep, sad murmurs of applause. Lord Nevil could not sup- 
port the violence of his emotion, but fell senseless to the ground. 
Corinne, beholding him in this condition, would have flown to 
him, but her strength failed as she attempted to rise. She was 
borne home, and from that hour no hopes were entertained of 
saving her. Lucy hastened to her, so afflicted by her husband’s 
grief, that she threw herself at her sister’s feet, imploring her to 
admit him; but Corinne refused. “I forgive him,” she said, 
“for having broken my heart. Men know not what they do; 

* “ J’a pitié de moi-même.” — Cokkeillm, 


33 * 


390 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 

society persuades them that it is sport to fill a heart with rapture, 
and then consign it to despair; but God’s free grace has given 
me back composure. The sight of Oswald would revive sensa> 
tions that ill befit a death-bed. Religion only possesses the secret 
clue through this terrific labyrinth. I pardon the being I so 
loved,” she continued, with a failing voice; “ may he be happy 
with you ! but when in his turn he is called on to die, then may 
he recollect the poor Corinne. She will watch over him, if Hea- 
ven permits ; for those never . cease to love, whose love has had 
the strength to cost them life.” 

Oswald stood at her door, sometimes about to enter, spite her 
prohibition, sometimes motionless with sorrow. Lucy passed 
from one to the other, like an angel of peace, between despair 
and death. One evening Corinne appeared more easy, and the 
parents went for a short time to their child, whom they had not 
seen for three days. During their absence the dying woman per- 
formed all the duties of religion ; then said to the reverend man 
who received her last solemn confession : “ Now, father, you know 
my fate. J udge me ! I have never taken vengeance on my foes ; 
the griefs of others never asked my sympathy in vain ; my faults 
sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves, though human 
pride and weakness led them to excess and error. Think you, 
my father— you who have so much longer experience than I — 
that God will pardon me ?” — “Yes, child, I hope so; is not your 
heart now wholly his ?” — “I believe it, father ; take away this 
portrait, it is Oswald’s ; lay on my breast the image of Him who 
descended to this life — not for the powerful, nor the inspired, but 
for the sufferer, the dying; they need his mercy.” She then 
perceived Castel Forte, who wept beside her bed, and holding out 
her hand to him, exclaimed : t( My friend ! you only are beside 
me now. I lived for love; yet, but for you, should die alone.” 
Her tears fell as she spoke, yet she added : “ There is no hel,p for 
such a moment; friends can but follow us to the brink; there 
begin thoughts too deep, too troubled, to be confided.” She 
begged they would remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze 
upon the sky. Lucy now came to her side; and the unhappy 


CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 


391 


Oswald, following his wife, fell at the feet of Corinne, who would 
have spoken to him, but her voice failed : she raised her eyes to 
Heaven; the moon was covered with just such a cloud as they 
had seen on their way to Naples. Corinne pointed to it with a 
dying hand — one sigh — and that hand sank powerless. 

Oswald fell into such distraction that Lucy trembled for his 
life. He followed the funeral pomp to Home ; then retired to 
Tivoli, where he remained long, without seeing even his wife and 
child. At last, duty and affection restored him to them; they 
returned to England. Lord Nevifs domestic life became must 
exemplary : but did he ever pardon his past conduct ? Could 
the approving world console him? After the fate he had en- 
joyed, could he content himself with common life ? I know not: 
nor will I, on that head, either absolve or condemn him. 




























• • 












0 




. 






V f - 

• - . . r ; 















' - ' f • ■ Ç - 

ê, Ù <’ < 4r" , . . L ... tri. t « v .• 



• i. • f > 

Iri, • „k 4 

• - 


* 

%. 1 




















I . 

v, * r » 




























































































































« ». 
















































•* 









































. 





































$Ut E0 


(1) Ancona is not much better supplied to this day. 

(2) This observation is made in a letter on Rome, by M. Humboldt, 
brother to the celebrated traveller, and Prussian minister at Rome ; a 
gentleman whose writings and conversation alike do honor to his learning 
and originality. 

(3) An exception must be made in favor of Monti, who reads verse as 
well as he writes it. There can be few greater dramatic treats than to 
hear him recite the episode of Ugolino — of Francesca, or the death of 
Clorinda. 

(4) Lord Nevil must have alluded to the beautiful lines of Propertius,— . 

“Ut caput in magnis ubi non est ponere signis; 

Ponitur hic imos antè corona pedes.” 

(5) A Frenchman commanded the castle of St. Angelo during the last 
war; and when summoned by the Neapolitans to surrender, replied, that 
he would do so when the bronze angel sheathed his sword. 

(6) These facts are found in “A history of the Italian Republics, dur- 
ing the Middle Ages,” by M. Simonde, of Geneva; an author of profound 
sagacity, equally conscientious and energetic. 

(7) “Eine Weitz zwar bist du, o Rom! doch ohne die Liebe Ware die 
Welt nicht die Welt, ware denn Rom aucht nicht Rom,” says Goethe, the 
poet and Philosopher, of all our modern men of letters the most remark- 
able for imagination. 

(8) It is said that the building of St. Peter’s was one of the principal 
causes of the Reformation ; as it cost the popes so much, that they mul- 
tiplied the sale of indulgences. 

(9) Mineralogists affirm that these lions are not basaltic, because the 
volcanic stone now so called was never found in Egypt ; but as Pliny and 
Winckleman (the historian of the arts) both give them that name, I avail 
jnyself of its primitive acceptation. 

(10) Carpite nunc, tauri, de septem collibus herbas 
Dum licet, hic magnæ jam locus urbis erit. 

Tibullus. 

( 393 ) 


394 


NOTES. 


Hoc quodcumque vides, hospes quàm maxima Roma eat. 

Ante Phrygem Ænean collis et herba fuit, &c. 

Propertius. 

(11) Augustus expired at Nola, on his way to the waters of Brundu- 
oium, which were prescribed him. He left Rome in a dying state. 

(12) Viximus insignes inter utramque facem. 

Propertius. 

(13) Plin. Hist. Nat., 1, 3. Tiberis, quam libet magnorum navium ex 
Italo mari capax, rerum in toto orbe nascentium mercator placidissimus, 
pluribus probè solus quam caeteri in omnibus terris amnes, accolitur, as- 
piciturque villis. Nullique fluviorum minus licet, inclusis utrinque later- 
ibus : nec tamen ipse pugnat, quanquam creber ac subitis incrementis, et 
nusquam magis aquis quam in ipsa urbe stagnantibus. Quin imo vates 
intelligiturpotius ac monitur, auctu semper religiosus verius quam sævus. 

(14) The dancing of Madame R,ecamier gave me the idea which I en- 
deavored to express. This celebrated beauty, in the midst of afflictions, 
displayed so touching a resignation, so total a forgetfulness of self, that 
her moral qualities seem as extraordinary as her personal grace. 

(15) Mr. Roscoe, author of the “ History of the Medici,” has since pub- 
lished that of Leo X., which recounts the proofs of admiring esteem given 
by the princes and people of Italy to men of letters ; impartially adding, 
that many of the popes have emulated this liberality. 

(16) Cesarotti, Verri, and Bettinelli, three modern authors, have in- 
stilled more thought into Italian prose than has been bestowed on it for 
many years. 

(17) Giovanni Pindemonte has published a series of dramas founded 
on Italian history ; a most praiseworthy enterprise. The name of Pinde- 
monte is also ennobled by Hippolito, one of Italy’s sweetest modern poets. 

(18) Alfieri’s posthumous works have been printed. It will be seen, 
by the eccentric experiment which he tried on his tragedy of Abel, that 
he himself thought his style too austere, and that the stage required en- 
tertainments of greater fancy and variety. 

(19) I have allowed myself to borrow some passages from a discourse 
on death, which may be found in “ The course of Religious Morals,” by 
M. Necker. Another work of his, “ The Importance of Religious Opin- 
ions,” had a more brilliant success, and is sometimes confused with this, 
which appeared when public interest was distracted by political events ; 
but I dare affirm, that “ The Course of Religious Morals” is my father’s 
most eloquent production. No statesman, I believe, ever before com- 
posed volumes for the Christian pulpit ; and this kind of writing, from a 
man who had so much to do with men, shows a knowledge of the human 
heart, and the indulgence that knowledge inspires. It appears that, in 
two respects, these Essays are completely original. A religious man is 


NOTES 


395 


usually a recluse. Men of the world are seldom religious. Where, then, 
shall we find united such observation of life, and such elevation of soul, 
that looks beyond it ? I should say, fearless of finding my opinion attri- 
buted to partiality, that this book is one of the first among those which 
console the feeling heart, and interest the reflective mind, on the great 
questions which are incessantly agitating them both. 

(20) From a journal called “Europe,” I have derived many valuable 
observations on painting — an inexhaustible subject for their author, M. 
Frederic Schlegel, and for German reasoners in general. 

(21) The historical pictures here described are David’s Brutus, Drouct’s 
Marius, and Gérard’s Belisarius. The Dido is by Rehberg, a German 
painter ; Clorinda, in the gallery of Florence ; Macbeth, from an English 
collection of pictures from Shakspeare : the Phedra is Guerin’s ; the two 
landscapes of Cincinnatus and Ossian are at Rome ; their artist, Mr. 
Wallis, an Englishman. 

(22) I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the prettiest, her sister or 
herself. “ Ah,” she replied, “ the best face is mine.” 

(23) An Italian postilion, beholding his horse expire, prayed for him, 
crying, “St. Anthony, have pity on his soul!” 

(24) The reader who wishes to know more of the Roman Carnival, 
should read the charming description of Goethe ; a picture faithful as it 
is animated. 

(25) There is an exquisite account of the Lake Albano, in a collection 
of poems by Madame Brunn (formerly Munter), one of the most talented 
and imaginative women of her country. 

(26) Discourse “ On the duty of Children to their Parents,” by M. 
Necker. See first note. 

(27) On Indulgence. The same. 

(28) Mr. Elliot saved the life of an old Neapolitan in the manner attri- 
buted to Lord Nevil. * 

(29) This name must not be confused with that of Corilla, an Italian 
improvisatrice. The Grecian Corinna was famed for lyric poetry. Pir* 
dar himself received lessons from her. 

(30) An old tradition supports the imaginative prejudice which per- 
suaded Corinne that the diamond could forewarn its wearer of its giver’s 
treachery. Frequent allusions are made to this legend by Spanish poets, 
in their peculiar manner. In one of Calderon’s tragedies, Ferdinand, 
Prince of Portugal, prefers death in chains, before the crime of surrender- 
ing to a Moorish king the Christian city which his brother, King Edward, 
offers for his ransom. The Moor, enraged at this refusal, subjects the 
noble youth to the basest ignominy. Ferdinand, in reproof, reminds him 
that mercy and generosity are the truest characteristics of supreme power. 
He cites all that is royal in the universe— the lion, the dolphin, the eagle, 
amid animals ; and seeks even among plants and stones for traits of natu- 
ral goodness, which have been attributed to those who lord it over the 


396 


NOTES. 


rest. Thus he says, the diamond, which resists the blow of steel, resolves 
itself to dust, that it may inform its master if treason threatens him. It 
is impossible to know whether this mode of considering all nature as con- 
nected with the destiny and sentiments of man is mathematically correct ; 
but it is ever pleasing to imagination ; and poetry, especially that of Spain, 
has owed it many great beauties. Calderon is only known to me by the 
German translation of Wihelm Schlegel ; but this author, one of his own 
country’s finest poets, has the art of transporting into his native language, 
with the rarest perfection, the poetic graces of Spanish, English, and 
Italian — giving a lively idea of the original, be it what it may. 

Note Tr. — Had Oswald’s gift been his mother’s wedding-ring, that in- 
cident would have been more affecting than so fanciful a fable. 

(31) M. Dubreuil, a very skilful French physician, fell ill of a fatal 
distemper. His popularity filled the sick room with visitants. Calling 
to his intimate friend, M. Péméja, as eminent a man as himself, he said, 
“Send away all these people; you know my fever is contagious ; no one 
but yourself ought to be with me now.” Happy the friend who ever 
heard such words 1 Péméja died fifteen days after his heart’s brother. 

(32) Among the comic Italian authors who have described their coun- 
try’s manners, must be reckoned the Chevalier Rossi, a Roman, who 
singularly unites observation with satire. 

(33) Talma, having passed some years in London, blended the charms 
of each country’s tragic acting with admirable talent. 

(34) After the death of Dante, the Florentines, ashamed of having 
permitted him to perish far from his home, sent a deputation to the pope 
for his remains, interred at Ravenna. The pope refused ; rightly deem- 
ing that the land which had sheltered him in exile must have become his 
country, and deserved not to be thus robbed of the glory that shone arouni 
his tomb. 

(35} Alfieri said, that it was in the church of Santa Croce he first felt 
a love for fame. The epitaph he composed for himself and the Countess 
d’Albani is most simply and affectingly expressive of long and perfect 
friendship. 

{36) It was announced at Bologna that a solar eclipse would take place 
one day at two. The people flocked to see it ; and, impatient at its delay, 
called on it to begin, as if it were an actor, who kept them waiting. At 
last it commenced ; but, as the cloudy weather prevented its producing 
any great effect, they set up the most violent hissings, angry that th« 
spectacle fell so far short of their expectations. 



THE END. 


X 










